


Balance

by Yossk



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BAMF Laura Barton, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Natasha-centric, POV Natasha Romanov, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Civil War (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-03-14 17:06:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 44,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13594557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yossk/pseuds/Yossk
Summary: One jaw-achingly cold night in the Andes, Natasha staggers up a flight of ceramic-tiled steps, one arm pressed to her gut and the other fishing around in a pocket for her keys. She’s bleary-eyed and aching and so, so tired, and she nearly forgets to check for the hair she left trapped in the door this morning until it’s almost too late.Natasha packs her bags and leaves, again and again and again. She forgets the world she's left behind and just survives. She's always worked best alone.Until a familiar face tracks her down and she has no choice but to return home. Because there's one thing she'll always fight for.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Consider this a preview, of sorts. I was hoping to get the whole thing finished before Black Panther is released (for no particular reason, I don't imagine it'll have much bearing on it!) but it's taking a little longer than I'd hoped. So have a prologue! I've got two or three more chapters to write, so the rest should follow in a few weeks.
> 
> ETA: Warnings, sorry I forgot, I'm an idiot. There's nothing I would think of as graphic coming up in this fic, but I will list warnings as they apply at the end of each chapter and at the end of the fic as a whole.

One jaw-achingly cold night in the Andes, Natasha staggers up a flight of ceramic-tiled steps, one arm pressed to her gut and the other fishing around in a pocket for her keys. She’s bleary-eyed and aching and so, so tired, and she nearly forgets to check for the hair she left trapped in the door this morning until it’s almost too late.

Needless to say, it’s gone, but she’s already made too much noise. There’s nothing for it but to push on (and on and on). She turns the key, flicks on the light and hurls a knife towards the first movement in the shadows. 

“Holy shit.”

Tony’s eyes are wide, the sleeve of his t-shirt pinned to the sofa with her blade. He’s unshaven and he looks exhausted. Natasha sags. 

“Thank your lucky stars I’m off my game.” 

“You’re blonde.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

She shuts the door, slides the lock home and pulls out a first aid kit from the kitchenette behind her. Tony seems to be having a hard time calming his breathing as he watches her unbutton her shirt and twist to examine the long gash running from hip to lower back. Her right hand is sticky with blood and she rinses it under the tap before perching on a stool and trying to work out how to pull herself back together.

Eventually, Tony unpins himself from the sofa. He’s fidgety and hyperactive, throwing the knife from hand to hand and attempting to spin it on one finger. Natasha looks up from the needle she’s threading and watches him warily. 

“You could hurt yourself with that.” 

“True.” He gives it one last spin, and then gestures with the blade towards her side, “I’m sure you’ve got this all in hand… and I’m probably the last person… do you want some help?”

“I’d prefer it if you put the knife down.”

He looks at it pointing towards her chest as if he’s not sure how it got there. “Sure.” It drops to the coffee table with a clatter as he moves to take the needle from her.

The feeling of another person’s hands pressed against her own skin is disconcertingly unfamiliar. Natasha flinches slightly at his touch, and tries to tell herself it’s because his hands are cold. She wonders how long he’s been sitting in the dark.

“I guess I should see the other guy, right?”

“Something like that.” Natasha’s expression remains blank but the shadow of a proper noun hangs in the air. Her grip tightens on the stool.

The silence stretches, and it’s not long before Tony has to break it.

“So, enlighten me, who was the lucky guy? Or guys… it must have been guys, right? Or you’d have been skipping merrily all the way home.”

“Fucked if I know.”

He pauses, eyebrow raised.

“What do you want me to say, Tony? Even I can’t tell the difference between Hydra and the US government when they’re stalking me down dark alleys in the middle of the night.”

Tony, for once, doesn’t seem to have a response. He holds his tongue between his teeth and focusses on her midriff. Natasha lets her mind wander, plotting her route out of the Andes, trying to work out where to head next. She silently curses whoever managed to track her down in every language she knows. She’d been getting fond of Arequipa, and the list of cities that haven’t yet hosted an attempt on her life is getting shorter by the week. She misses New York. She misses Iowa even more.

Eventually, he ties off the last stitch, snipping the thread with a sharp _snap_. “There you go, all done.” He considers her for a moment, “You know, it’s nice to know I’m not the only one who gets stabbed in the back.” His voice is brittle and flat.

Natasha stiffens. Tony’s hand on her waist jerks away hastily.

“Too soon? That was definitely too soon.” He’s flippant. Too flippant.

But Natasha just closes her eyes, counts to ten and lets it wash over her. She’s too tired for another fight. She grabs a too-large sweatshirt from the back of a chair and pulls it on over her bra, then takes a bottle of vodka out of a cupboard, pours herself a measure and knocks it back. She lets the fire in her throat ground her before she turns back to look at him. 

“Tony.”

“Natasha.”

“Why are you here?”

He side-steps the question, “Not going to offer a man a drink? Long journey and all. You’re a difficult woman to find.” 

She scoffs, “Clearly not difficult enough.”

“Come on, not even for old time’s sake?” He wheedles.

“There’s water in the tap.”

“Charming.”

Natasha turns to look at him, stares him down, “Tony. Why. Are. You. Here?” 

He breaks her gaze, runs a hand through his hair. He’s doing it again, saying all the things that don’t matter in order to avoid saying the only thing that does.

“Tony, for godsake spit it out.”

“I fucked up.”

Somehow, it’s this that forces a brittle chuckle to bubble up in her throat, “Yeah, well, didn’t we all.”

She sighs and sinks gingerly onto the sagging couch, pursing her lips as bruised ribs shift against each other. She rolls a stiff shoulder, still recovering from a knife wound inflicted during her brief stay in Lima. She’s so fucking tired of this.

Tony takes the chair opposite. She shoves the bottle and glass across the coffee table towards him.

It’s a peace-offering, of sorts.

“So which particular fuck-up in this year of epic fuck-ups brings you to my doorstep in the middle of the night?”

He bristles, “I did what had to be done, Nat. I was trying to keep us together.”

“That’s not—“ She stops. That wasn’t what she had meant, but maybe it needed to be said. “So was I.” 

Natasha drops her head into her hands for a moment, tangles her fingers in her hair. “You know, that really is all I wanted. I couldn’t have given much of a damn about the UN or the rest of the world. But somehow, I’m the one who ended up alone. Funny how things work out.” Her voice is cracked at the edges. It’s been a long time since she’s had a conversation as herself. 

“This didn’t have to happen. We could have…” His expression darkens, “You chose the wrong side.”

“Oh for…” Natasha grits her teeth, “I didn’t choose a side, Tony. There were no sides. But that was always too complex for all your tiny brains to comprehend.” 

Her anger fades as quickly as it arrived, retreating to the thrumming ache that’s become her baseline. She looks over his head, out of the high window behind him at a patch of clear night sky. “It’s over, it’s done and here we are. Now for the love of God, either tell me why you’re here, arrest me, or get out. I need to pack.”

Tony dips his head in acknowledgement. The argument’s not over, but they both know it’s not why he’s come. He reaches over to pour himself a drink. The fight has left him again, and his movements are stiff and strained. He stares into the clear liquid swirling around in his hand. “I’ve got another item to add to your list of ‘reasons to hate Tony Stark.’”

“I don’t hate you, Tony. I’m angry and exhausted but I don’t hate you.”

“Here me out, ok? Give a guy a chance.” He gives her half a brittle grin. Natasha stays silent, stares at him blankly. She’s not giving him another opportunity for irrelevant verbal diarrhoea.

He takes a deep breath, “It’s the Bartons.”

It’s the last thing she expected him to say. Natasha feels herself go cold, “What did you do?”

“I… When I visited the Raft, before Siberia and… that whole shitstorm…” He looks at her questioningly, unsure how much she’s heard. Her expression is impassive, and he decides to assume she knows everything unless told otherwise. She normally does. He barrels on. “I mentioned that Clint had a family. On camera. In front of Ross.”

Natasha closes her eyes, tries to ignore the flutter of her heart, “Oh for godsake.” And then half a second later her brain catches up with the timeline. “That was nearly six months ago Tony. Why the fuck are you only telling me this now?” Her voice is low and dangerous. 

“I..I was angry and stupid and I fucked up.” She takes a sadistic pleasure in watching him stammer, but it’s not helpful, it’s not getting her any more information. She raises an impatient eyebrow, “I didn’t say anything specific. Just that they existed. Nat, you know I would never—“

Her eyes slide past his, just for a second.

“No, I suppose you don’t.”

“Keep going.”

“I’ve been keeping an eye on them, and on Ross. He just knew they existed, that was it. Nothing about who they were or where they were.”

“But he does now.” It’s a statement, not a question. He wouldn’t be here otherwise.

“Not yet… but he’s close. He’s been… a little antsy. Six rogue avengers, six months and nothing to show for it. People aren’t happy, Nat. I don’t know where he’s gonna draw the line.”

“Somewhere just after kidnapping children, and just before murdering them, I’d imagine.” Natasha’s on her feet, turning to stare out of the small window. Her hands have balled into fists.

“Vision’s watching the house. They won’t… Nat, they won’t get past him. But we need to move them somewhere, and we need to do it quietly. I figured that was your area of expertise.”

“Not to mention that I’d wring your neck if you tried to do this without me.” She turns back towards him, hands on the back of the sofa. She’s staying cool, detached. Tony tends to bring it out in her, living up to expectations and all, but she’s not sure how long she can keep it up. “Clint?”

“I’ve tried. He’s safe. In Wakanda.”

She nods, inscrutable.

“But, despite T’Challa’s best efforts, everyone knows they’re in Wakanda. You can’t get anything or anyone in or out of that country without at least six UN countries insisting on inspecting it. I’ve tried, I really have.”

“Which leaves me.” Natasha rubs her hands over her face, desperately pulling herself back to alertness, “You have a safehouse?”

He gives her a look which clearly says _‘what do you take me for?’_ She raises an eyebrow at him.

He sighs, “Yep. Canada.”

“Good. I need cash.” She pauses. “And about thirty hours sleep. But cash will do.”

“Done. Anything else? Transport, passports?”

“No. I’ll handle it.” She stares up at the ceiling, runs through some options, tries to work out who she needs to contact first, how much ammunition she has hidden in her coat. “It’ll take me forty eight hours to make arrangements and get back into the country. You’ll keep Ross distracted until then. And I need to know exactly how much he knows.” It’s not a request.

She starts rummaging around the kitchen cupboards, piling essential items on the counter. There’s a distinct lack of food. She remembers she hasn’t eaten in at least twelve hours and that might have something to do with the unreal nature the world has taken on. Or, on the other hand, it might not.

“I need food. There’s a bar down the street.” She checks her watch. “Should still be open.”

Tony looks at her blankly.

“See what you can bring back. One of the waiters speaks English.”

“Oh, right. Anything else?”

“No.”

Natasha turns her back on him and heads into the bedroom. A minute later, the front door clicks open and shut behind her.

She holds her breath for a second, lets the silence settle. And then, for the fourth time in less than a month, she starts to pack. Clothing, weaponry. One or two personal items that she pretends she doesn’t need as much as she does. That’s it. She’s always travelled light.

There’s a moment, just a moment, in the midst of working out who she needs to be for her next move, when she finds herself shivering in her underwear, staring at a pile of clothing on the neatly made bed with images of a white porch in the glow of an orange sunset crowding behind her eyes. She feels the selfish ache in her heart for the imminent loss of her first home. 

But then she pulls herself together, makes a decision. This is not about her. She can’t change what’s already been done.

She finishes getting dressed, grabs her holdall, stuffs in the last few items she’s piled up in the kitchen. She looks around. The flat is hollow again, as if she’d never been there at all.

She sets her laptop on the counter-top and perches on a stool. There are preparations she needs to make, people she needs to contact. The glow of the screen lights up her face as she types. 

She sits, like a ghost in the dark, and waits for Tony to return.


	2. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They stand there for a few moments, the weight of six long months alone sitting between them. It’s as if neither of them is sure quite what to do now. As if, in this moment, neither of them are reacting quite like they thought they would.

Laura sticks her head around her oldest son’s bedroom door, “Coop, it’s gone nine.”

He groans and looks up from a battered copy of Northern Lights, “I’m nearly at the end of the chapter…”

“Finish the chapter, then lights out.” She pulls back and waits outside for a couple of minutes, watching the light seeping out through the crack under his door. It stays on. 

“Coop…”

“Just a minute!”

“Now.”

There’s some rustling, and the lamp clicks off. She’s fairly sure he’s got a torch in there under the covers, but at least she’s tried. There’s far worse things her newly-teenaged son could be trying to hide from her.

Laura yawns and makes her way downstairs. The house is quiet, the whirring hum of the fridge and drip of water from the kitchen tap clearly audible. She really needs to fix it. Maybe she’ll have a crack at it tomorrow whilst the kids are at school. 

She makes herself a cup of tea and settles on the sofa, pulling out her phone and scrolling through the day’s news. It’s all depressing. And despite her scrutiny, there’s nothing that could mean anything _useful_.

_Rat-tat._

Laura starts, nearly spilling scalding hot tea in her lap as she turns towards the front door. Who the hell? The porch light’s switched off and she can make out a dark person-shaped shadow through the glass-panelling.

A staccato rhythm follows: _rat-tat-tat. Tat. Rat-tat._

Her heart clenches in her chest, and she stops halfway to grabbing a knife off the kitchen counter. There’s only two people in the world who knock on her front door like that. That exact rhythm, at that exact volume, carefully pitched to penetrate the living room without waking sleeping children. 

_Rat-tat-tat. Tat. Rat-tat._

The knock comes again, a little more insistently. She grabs the knife anyway. She’s learnt that you can never be too careful

She peers out through the glass pane. The shadow is a little too short to be Clint, but it could be Nat, wearing a hood and a bulky coat to disguise her silhouette. She opens the door a crack and squints into the darkness.

“Can I come in?” Laura feels herself relax. She can still barely make her out in the dark, but Natasha’s voice is unmistakeable.

She opens the door wider and the other woman slips past, pushing it quietly closed behind her. She eyes the knife in Laura’s hand and nods almost imperceptibly, as if to say _good idea_ , and then stiffens as Laura pulls her into a gentle hug. She’s thinner than she was when they last met.

They stand there for a few moments, the weight of six long months alone sitting between them. It’s as if neither of them is sure quite what to do now. As if, in this moment, neither of them are reacting quite like they thought they would. Eventually, Laura feels Natasha relax against her.

“I missed you.” It’s a simple statement of fact, but it’s more than that. _I don’t blame you. I’m glad you’re ok._

“I missed you too.” Natasha’s reply is barely a whisper, a faint rush of air against Laura’s shoulder before she pulls away, “I wasn’t expecting much of a welcome.”

Laura gets a proper look at her now. She was right about the bulky coat and, under her hood, the younger woman’s hair is short again, a disconcertingly bright blonde. It makes her look worn. Her expression is guarded.

She gives her a small smile, “Well, you could have called ahead.” 

Natasha pulls back the hood and runs a hand through her hair, “Sorry.” She frowns, searching for the right words, “It’s… well, it’s a mess. You know that.”

Laura nods, “Yes I do.” And then she sighs, sets her jaw a little, “You’re not just here for a catch-up, are you?”

“No.”

They’re still standing just inside the doorway; Laura shivering in her dressing gown and Natasha starting to feel uncomfortably warm in her winter clothes. She’s hiked five miles from the second-nearest train station and her heart is pumping, face flushed despite the frost laying itself down on the fields outside. 

Laura continues, “But it’s not desperately urgent either?” There’s a tentative note of hope in her voice, “No-one’s dying?”

The shadow of a smile flits across Natasha’s face, “No.”

“So can I have half an hour? Can we put the life-changing news on hold, and just pretend everything is normal for half an hour?” She offers up a small smile, “I can provide dinner, wine and painkillers.”

Natasha seems to consider for a couple of moments, and some of the tension leaks out of her shoulders. She nods, “I can give you half an hour.” 

“Right then.” Laura steps back into the living room, rummages around in a drawer, then sets a glass of water and two ibuprofens deliberately on the kitchen counter. She looks at them pointedly.

Natasha’s eyes narrow, “I’m fine.” And then, “How did you know?”

Laura smirks and taps the side of her nose, “I always know.”

Rolling her eyes, Natasha follows, dropping a small holdall at the end of the couch and pulling off her gloves. She eyes the tablets suspiciously, before shrugging and swallowing them down.

“Where’s the damage?” asks Laura, studying her critically.

“I got stabbed in the side two days ago. It’s fine.” she replies. It’s the same voice she’d use to tell you she’d missed her bus, or spotted someone wearing shoes she liked.

Laura looks at her sceptically, “I very much doubt that.”

“It really is fine. I can’t tell you why it’s fine without straying into the thing I’ve promised not to talk about for the next…” She glances up at the clock above the fireplace, “…27 minutes.”

“Touché.” 

“Hang on, I’ll be right back. Just got to--” She shrugs off the over-warm coat and gestures towards the coat hooks by the door. 

Laura’s voice follows her from the kitchen, “We had bolognaise for dinner, so there’s some of that left or…” Natasha can hear her rummaging around in the freezer, “…there’s chilli or I think this is chicken curry… Huh. I’d suggest steering clear of that one. Lila accused me of trying to, and I quote, ‘burn her mouth off.’”

Natasha smiles in spite of herself, “Bolognaise please.” She can practically feel the past six months slipping away.

She hangs up her coat and eyes the neat row of shoes lined up by the door. They’re a little bigger than they were when she was last here, and there’s a new pair of tiny Nate-sized sneakers. Natasha picks one up, turns it over in her hand.

“Parmesan, or cheddar?” She jumps at the sound of Laura’s voice right behind her. The shoe falls to the floor and bounces. It starts flashing. Red, green, blue, one after the other, round and round. Light-up shoes have gotten a lot more sophisticated since Cooper was small. 

“Er… Parmesan.” She looks around guiltily, but Laura’s disappeared back into the other room. She crouches down and puts the little shoe back in its place, watches until the lights stop. She gives herself a small shake, and forces herself to remember why she’s here.

“Right. Painkillers, food, I believe wine was the next on your wish list?” Natasha says, walking back into the living room and rooting around in the rack in the sideboard, “Huh. Not much of a selection.”

“I haven’t really been… well, I’ve been alone a lot. Didn’t want to start a habit I might regret.” Laura’s pouring boiling water on to the pasta, her back to the room and her voice is quiet.

“Oh no, I tell a lie…” Natasha continues as if she hadn’t spoken, pulling a dusty bottle of _Faustino I_ from the back of the cupboard with a triumphal flourish. 

Laura’s still watching the pasta come to the boil, and by the time she turns around, the cork has been removed and there are two large, full glasses sat on the breakfast bar. “Nat, I was saving that.” She sounds amused and vaguely exasperated.

“What for? Special occasion?” The innocent expression, accompanied by the quirking of an eyebrow is so quintessentially Nat that Laura is momentarily thrown back in time. But it fades quickly, replaced by something almost wistful. Natasha shrugs her shoulder slightly, “We have what we have when we have it. And right now I have a bottle of very nice rioja and a friend to drink it with. I’m not letting that moment pass.” 

Laura nods minutely. She drums her fingers gently along the counter top. Their twenty… two minutes is passing too quickly. She picks up her glass, “Cheers.”

Natasha returns the gesture. “How…” She stops. It’s like she’s not sure if she has the right to ask, “How are you?”

Laura considers her answer, running her finger gently around the top of her glass, “Um… ok, mostly. It’s hard.”

Natasha looks down, “Yes.”

She examines her glass for a little longer, and then it’s as though, slowly but surely, a dam breaks, “I had to tell Coop pretty much everything. He’s so…” She searches for a word, “He’s grown up so much. He’s on the internet, he has a phone, he hears things at school. It’s better that he gets this stuff from me than from someone else.” She drums her fingers on the table for a moment, thinking. “He’s so much more mature than I was at that age. Sometimes I don’t understand where he comes from. My only complaint is that I can’t get him to stop reading and go to goddamn sleep. Philip Pullman has a lot to answer for.” She shakes her head ruefully, but there’s a touch of price in her voice.

And then she sighs, “Lila, on the other hand… She’s wonderful and lively and, well, you know…but she’s exactly old enough to know that something’s wrong, and exactly young enough not to understand why I can’t fix it. She’s angry and… I just don’t know how to help. Clint…” Her face sort of _tightens_ on her husband’s name, as though she doesn’t say it often, as though she’s afraid of how it makes her feel, “He’s managed to call a couple times, but she refuses to speak to him.” Natasha reaches out to squeeze her friend’s hand. It’s all she can offer, but they’re interrupted by the harsh beeping of the microwave. Laura shakes herself and jumps up, able to hide her face as she busies herself with draining pasta and grating cheese. 

“Laura, I can... you don’t…” Natasha starts. She’s far too late. There’s already a steaming boil of spaghetti bolognaise being set down in front of her. Her stomach growls appreciatively, “…thanks.” She focuses on twirling spaghetti on her fork and waits. It’s the best thing she’s eaten in weeks. 

Laura sits down again, chewing on her lip thoughtfully before taking a large gulp of wine, “Nate’s… he’s walking now. And talking more than ever. He’s… fine. And you know what?” She pauses, contemplating something, “I think that’s worse. I’m afraid he’s starting to forget.”

Natasha chews and swallows, her stomach tightening. She’s not often lost for words, but Laura’s pain is so far out of her own experience that she doesn’t have anything to offer. Especially when she knows that in approximately thirteen minutes she’s going to have to make it a hundred times worse.

Laura shrugs, “That’s me.”

Natasha looks up at her, “No it’s not. That was three very important people, but none of them are Laura Barton.”

Laura looks slightly startled, and then lets out a self-conscious laugh, “What? You mean to say I might have something to talk about other than my children?” 

Natasha tilts her head slightly and lets he lip quirk into half a smile. She waits.

After a minute or two, Laura breaks the silence, “I’m tired, Nat. I’m tired of being alone.” It has the air of a shameful confession, as though she shouldn’t admit to wanting another adult to talk to more than one day out of seven. Natasha listens, lining her fork up neatly next to her spoon on the now empty plate.

“And I’m tired of being angry. I don’t even know who I’m angry with any more.” She shakes her head, “I want to blame someone but I don’t know who.”

“I’m sorry, Laura.” She’s not sure what for exactly, just that somehow, _somehow_ , there had to have been a better way to play it. A way that wouldn’t have ended like _this_.

Laura shakes her head, “Not your fault.”

She shrugs, “I played it wrong.”

“Everyone played it wrong.”

Natasha grimaces. She can’t argue with that. She takes a sip of the wine. It’s good.

Laura is staring at her, “Your turn.”

Natasha puts down the glass and gives a brittle little laugh, “Oh, I’m fine. It’s been just like old times. Looking twice around every corner, never staying anywhere more than a week. I’ve completed the bingo card of world capitals I’ve nearly been killed or arrested in. Twice” She tries to be flippant, but it doesn’t come off very well. 

“Sounds fun.”

“I’d thoroughly recommend it.” She downs the rest of the glass. Then she frowns, “On the plus side, it’s finally given me the impetus to change my hair.”

Laura’s blunt, “I hate it.”

Natasha gives a small but genuine chuckle, “Me too. Blondes definitely do not have more fun.” She glances at the clock over Laura’s shoulder and worries at her sleeve with one hand.

Laura sighs, “Time up?”

Natasha nods tightly. She’s tensing up again, slipping from personal to professional in a way that Laura always dreads seeing in her own home.

“Ok.” Laura refills both their glasses and sets her jaw. “I’m suitably fortified. Hit me.”

Natasha opens her mouth. 

“You need to leave. All of you. I’ve come to take you to a safehouse.”

Laura just blinks for a couple of seconds, and then swallows “Why?”

“Ross knows about you. He’s close to finding you. And I don’t for one second believe he wouldn’t stoop to using you to get to Clint.” She takes a breath, “Or me.”

“Right.” The floor all of a sudden feels unsteady, like the world has tilted slightly out of alignment. Laura’s mind is whirring. This was always a possibility, but they’ve been safe for so long. “How?”

Natasha purses her lips, and her fingers whiten around her glass, “It wasn’t malicious but… Tony. He tracked me down two days ago.”

Laura’s eyes darken, “Sonofabitch.”

“If it helps, I threw a knife at him.”

“Did you hit him?”

“No, but he nearly pissed himself.”

“Better than nothing.”

They’re quiet for a moment. Laura surveys the living room, her eyes roaming over the photographs on the window sill and the discarded Lego truck by the TV. She looks back at Natasha with a crease between her eyebrows and small crack on the edge of her voice, “Does Clint know?”

Natasha shakes her head, “No. It’s… he couldn’t have got here in time.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow. We’ll take the kids straight from school. I’ve got new plates for your car.”

She nods slowly, “Right.”

“Are we going to come back?”

“I don’t know.”

“No. Of course you don’t. Fuck.” Laura doesn’t swear often. The words sound ugly and wrong in her mouth. She purses her lips, “What if I don’t want to?”

Natasha bites her lip, “I won’t make you leave,” She looks at her hands. “It’s not just Ross. Once he finds this house, and at this point it’s a ‘when’ not an ‘if’, the information will be out there. Clint has a lot of enemies. I have even more.” She looks up into her friend’s eyes, “I can’t… You wouldn’t be safe. I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that. It—“

There’s a creak on the stairs. Both woman freeze and turn towards the door, watching to see which small person is making their way downstairs. Laura closes her eyes and breathes slowly and deliberately, clenching and unclenching one fist.

The door opens. It’s Cooper. He shuffles in in his slippers and his eye widen at the sight of Natasha. He stops in the doorway, “What are you doing here?”

She lets herself smile gently, “Hey kiddo, I could ask you the same question.”

“Couldn’t sleep…” he mumbles, yawning and crossing the room.

She raises an eyebrow, “How’s Lyra?”

He stops and gapes at her, “How did you know?”

Natasha taps one finger against the side of her nose, “Secret spy skills.” She’s gratified to hear Laura snort quietly behind her as she stands up, “Do I get a hug, or are you too old for that sort of thing now?”

He grins, “No. I’m not too old.”

“Good.” She holds out her arms and lets him come to her. It wasn’t so long ago that he fit neatly under her chin, but he’s nearly as tall as her now, all long gangly limbs and teenage awkwardness. He smells the same. She ruffles his hair and he wriggles away, “Eurgh, Auntie Nat, stop it. Why do you always do that?”

She just grins, “It’s fun.”

He grumbles and flattens his hair back down, then turns to Laura, “Mom, can I have a glass of water?”

Laura starts slightly, as though she’d spaced out. Her voice is gentle, “You know where the tap is, Coop.”

Cooper looks between them. He can feel something in the air, “What’s going on?” He narrows his eyes at Natasha, “Why are you here? Did something happen to Dad?”

She shakes her head vehemently, “No, nothing like that. He’s fine. He’s… He still can’t come home, but he’s ok. Nothing’s changed.” He still looks suspicious, “I promise, Coop.” He nods, seems satisfied.

“Ok.”

Laura manages to rally herself. She slips off her stool, filling up a glass from the tap and handing it to her son with a quick kiss on the head, “There you go. Go back to bed now, it’s late.”

He sticks his tongue out at her in a way that only Natasha is meant to see. It’s an expression so incredibly reminiscent of Clint that she can’t help it. She snorts. 

Cooper gives her a conspiratorial grin, “Are you staying?”

She nods, “Uhuh. I’ll be here in the morning.”

The grin gets wider, “Ok, goodnight. ‘Night Mom.”

“Goodnight, Coop.”

They listen to his footsteps as he make his way upstairs, and to the faint squeak of hinges as he opens and shut his bedroom door. 

“Well someone’s had a growth spurt.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve been buying new trousers like they’re going out of fashion…. Which, let’s face it, they probably are.” Laura gives a half-hearted self-deprecating laugh. Her eyebrows are still creased in the middle. She looks up, and Natasha submits to her scrutiny, “You look like you need sleep too.”

She shrugs, “I’m fine.” Laura seems to be drawing in on herself, her grip tightening on her glass and her eyes starting to glaze over. Natasha watches her, trying to work out what she needs.

“You’ll say that until you keel over.” Laura says, standing up, “Why don’t you go to bed? Sounds like we’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

“I’m really fine.” _I don’t want to leave you alone._

“I think I need some time. To process.” She scrutinises a burn mark on the counter. “I think I want to be alone.”

She purses her lips, “Are you sure?”

Her friend nods, and makes a small humming noise that isn’t quite a yes.

Natasha hesitates, “I’m not going to sleep, not for a while… But I’ll be upstairs. Let me know if… anything.” 

She slips off her stool and gathers her bag from the end of the sofa. As she passes through the doorway, she turns and looks back. Laura is still standing, still looking at the counter-top like it might hold the key to the universe. 

Natasha shuts the door gently behind her.

  
  



	3. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleep, when it comes, brings confused, tense dreams. Natasha runs and runs, but never quite makes it in time. For what, she’s not sure. She wakes with a start, the image of something terrible and intangible fading from her retinas. Her right arm has stretched itself up above her head in her sleep and she snatches it down as though it’s betrayed her.

Natasha waits several hours for Laura to go to bed, listens as she eventually makes her way up the stairs, hears the buzzing of her toothbrush and the sharp click of her bedroom door closing. She slips out into the hall half an hour later and checks that the seam of light under the master bedroom door has gone out before eventually crawling into bed herself.

Sleep, when it comes, brings confused, tense dreams. Natasha runs and runs, but never quite makes it in time. For what, she’s not sure. She wakes with a start, the image of something terrible and intangible fading from her retinas. Her right arm has stretched itself up above her head in her sleep and she snatches it down as though it’s betrayed her. She rolls over to look at the red numbers of the alarm clock. 5am.

It’s still dark outside as she locates a pair of slippers in the wardrobe and rifles through her bag. Stuffed right at the bottom, as though to allow herself plausible deniability, is a soft grey hoodie that she pretends didn’t used to belong to Bruce.

She slips out of the room with her laptop tucked under her arm, creeping downstairs to the kitchen and neatly skipping over the creaky step on her way. She makes coffee, and then settles on the sofa under the window to watch the sky lighten. 

Her gaze alights on the wooden bench on the porch, ancient and empty now, in the darkness of a winter’s morning. In her mind, she relives balmy summer nights when time seemed to stand still, when Clint would get tipsily philosophical and Laura would lazily throw peanuts at his head, all of her nervous energy leaking out as though the stars really were pinpricks in the black cloth of the night sky. 

Some nights, Natasha could close her eyes and tell them stories: Russian fairy tales and ballet classes and a muddle of events which couldn’t possibly belong to a single childhood. Her mind is a tangled web of _was_ and _might have been_ and _definitely wasn’t_. But on those nights, with time-softened wood at her back, her bare feet pushed under Clint’s thighs, bumping toes with Laura on his other side, _truth_ and _fact_ didn’t seem to matter as much as _here_ and _now_.

Eventually, they’d find the stars fading and a warm pink glow creeping above the trees. Even as the years passed, and they began to be interrupted by baby monitors and children who ‘couldn’t sleep’, somehow the magic was never lost. It was a beautiful spot to watch the sunrise. 

It’s winter now, a bitter snap in the air and glittering frost smothering the fields. Cooper and Lila will descend with all the noise and chaos of a school morning well before the sun touches the horizon. It’s the season of warm fires and hot chocolate and early to bed with a hot water bottle slipped between the covers. 5am doesn’t belong to the winter.

Natasha looks around the room slowly, taking in every stray Lego and discarded mug. She’s rarely mourned anything in her life, rarely had the chance to say goodbye. SHIELD betrayed her at the last, everything that she might have grieved become shadows and lies and a mockery of her life and her ledger. And the Avengers, _well_ , her lips tighten at the thought. She had fought so hard, but she’d lost the life she knew before she even understood what was at stake.

Now, she has a chance to look around and remember before it all disappears. She watches the first snowflake alight on the bench with its three ghosts. Perhaps it’s better that they didn’t know the last time was going to be the last.

The laptop screen is over-bright when she opens it, stark and harsh, a jolt back to reality. She checks her email, reading a clumsily coded message from Tony. She gets the gist ( _all clear. Proceed as planned_ ) ¬before allowing herself to snort at his newest pseudonym. She pulls up a map and traces their circuitous, meandering route, complete with back-ups and alternatives and optional detours. It’s already burned into her mind, but it doesn’t hurt to check, not when there’s so much at stake.

At 6am, Laura’s alarm starts beeping cheerily above her and a few minutes later Cooper’s joins in with a harsh squawk. Natasha closes her laptop and puts the kettle back on, pulling cereal boxes and bowls from the cupboards as she waits for it to boil. She adds a dash of milk to a cup of coffee for Laura, and passes Cooper on the stairs as she takes it up.

“Morning Coop.”

“Morning Auntie Nat.” His voice is heavy and full of sleep, his hair sticking up at the front. She reaches out a hand and, much to his chagrin, ruffles it on her way past.

Laura’s in the shower when she sticks her head around her bedroom door, so she leaves the coffee on the dressing table and retreats. As she heads back to her own room to get properly dressed, the door at the end of the corridor opens and Lila’s silhouetted in the doorway. She’s grown an inch, perhaps, but otherwise she’s exactly the same, mousey hair in a tangle from bed and a too large blue dressing gown slipping off of one shoulder. 

“Hey kiddo.”

Lila freezes. She gapes at her for a few moments. Then the sound of the door slamming echoes along the landing.

Natasha just stands there, a half-formed smile frozen on her lips. Then she grits her teeth and turns into her own bedroom.

As she skims clothes from the top of her bag, a muted argument carries through the door.

“Mom, why’s _she_ here?”

“Lila…” Laura’s voice is weary.

“I don’t want her here. I hate her.”

“Lila, stop being rude and go downstairs.”

Lila’s feet pound angrily on every step, her school bag bumping along behind her.

Natasha gets dressed and tries to pretend her heart isn’t breaking.

She must be a glutton for punishment, because, after pulling on jeans and a t-shirt, she slips across to Nate’s room. He’s started fussing and she thinks that this morning, of all mornings, Laura could do with an extra five minutes to herself. He won’t recognise her, she knows that, it’s been too long and he’s too young and she braces herself for his signature blood-curdling scream as she prods the door open with her toe. Still, she has to try.

Unlike Lila, he’s transformed, and she laughs at the obviousness and the unexpectedness of it. He’s not a baby any more, he’s a proper little person with a full head of dark hair and it won’t be long before he’s scaling the bars of his crib and Laura has to buy him a proper bed. His face forms real expressions, complex emotions flitting across it as he considers her in the doorway. She waits, and she hopes. He doesn’t scream.

“Morning, Nate.” It’s mostly a whisper, a tentative thread of longing that one thing, this one thing, won’t have changed. He stands stock still, his mouth open in surprise and confusion, his babbling song and inspired percussion suddenly halted. She steps forward slowly. 

“You ready to get up? You hungry?” She reflects that she has no idea what he eats nowadays, that he must have graduated from breastmilk and mush months ago. She’ll have to ask Laura. He’s still watching her warily as she approaches the crib. She takes a deep breath, and reaches over to pick him up.

There’s a horrible tense moment where he stiffens at her touch, hands gripping firmly under his armpits, and she’s sure he’s going to scream. But then he must recognise something, a smell or the sound of her voice or the exact shape of her arms. A sense memory that means he’s safe, that everything’s going to be ok. She lifts him onto her hip and he fidgets against her bruised ribs, a dull ache reminding her that Laura’s painkillers wore off hours ago. As she shifts him into a more comfortable position, a small hand reaches up to tangle in her hair. He cocks his head a little as he looks at her. He’s still confused, but he’s going along with it for the moment.

“Yes, I know, it’s not nearly as fun as it used to be. No-one likes it.”

He babbles something incoherent and she hears a soft laugh from the doorway. 

“He has excellent taste.” 

Natasha turns around slowly. The dark shadows under Laura’s eyes betray her lack of sleep, but her presence seems to have grown overnight. She’s fully dressed, and her expression is now one of grim determination. Natasha knows she shouldn’t have doubted, knows only too well the deep well of strength that lives inside her friend, but she can’t help the overwhelming relief which floods through her at the sight. 

Laura shuts the door quietly behind her, “We need to talk.”

Natasha nods, distractedly disentangling Nate’s fingers from her hair. She moves to hand him over.

“You can keep him.”

“No.”

Laura’s eyebrows knit together, “He missed you”

“I’m here to do a job. I can’t do that and be… this.” She indicates the finger Nate is now trying to chew, and all the soft edges leak out of her voice, “I can keep you safe. I _will_ keep you safe. That’s what I’m good at. But I can’t play at Auntie Nat at the same time. So if we’re going to talk about what needs to happen today, then I need you to take him.”

Laura meets Natasha half way, slipping Nate onto her hip and eliciting a soft and indignant squeal as he’s forced to relinquish Natasha’s finger. Laura automatically offers her own up for inspection, which he seems to take as an acceptable trade.

“You were never playing.”

Natasha just gives a small shake of her head. It’s not relevant. 

“Tell me what’s going to happen.”

“Take the kids to schools, pretend everything’s normal. Do everything exactly as you do every other day.”

“And when I get back?” Nate has started fidgeting on her hip, trying to tip himself towards the floor. She shifts him towards her body, landing a quick and distracted kiss on his head.

“We pack. We swap out the license plates on your car. We leave here at 3pm, collect Cooper and Lila from school and become different people. We drive all weekend. We stop at two motels on the way, and wind up fifty miles from Calgary. New house, new life.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Nate’s had enough, he lets out a strangled cry, “Down!” and starts trying to tip himself over again. 

“Ok love, down we go.” Laura swings him down to the floor and he toddles off a few feet to say good morning to a small pile of stuffed toys under the window. She continues talking, “Huh. Somehow I thought life on the run would be a little bit more….complicated.”

It strikes Natasha then, just how alien this world is to her. Laura’s been so close to it for so long, but always just on the outside. She knows their world on an intellectual level – she’s dealt with the fallout and kept secrets and not asked too many questions that can't be answered. But it’s never been a part of her life. The during, the part where they inhabit other people, where they lie and fight and kill, that’s a part she’s never seen. That’s the part that has to be experienced to be understood.

“It shouldn’t be.”

“But..?”

“Make sure they’re wearing clothes they can run in.”

Laura swallows visibly, “Ok. What are you planning to tell them?”

“I was hoping you would help with that.”

To her surprise, Laura smiles, “So you keep us alive, and I deal with child wrangling? I think I can cope with that. I’ll work it out.” She looks at Natasha, studies all the lines and shadows of her face, “There’s something else, isn’t there? Something I’m not going to like?”

“I was going to talk to you about it later.” Her gaze shifts towards the door, tracing an invisible line downstairs to the kitchen.

“Now’s fine. They’re still practically sleepwalking. We’ve got at least twenty minutes until the daily catalogue of lost things.” 

Natasha lowers her voice, “If something happens, and, I promise you, I have done everything in my power to make sure it shouldn’t. But if you have to hide, I want to give Nate one of these.” She reaches in her pocket and pulls out a blister pack of small, soluble tablets.

Laura takes them, turns them over in her hand, “What are they?”

“It’s a sedative. It’s safe, I promise. He might not be able to stay quiet.”

Laura studies the packet in her hand for a moment, and then watches her son having an intense conversation with Mr. Rabbit. She hands it back to Natasha, “Ok.”

“Ok?”

“I trust you.”

Natasha almost looks like she wants to argue, but she just nods tightly. 

“I have another question. Why did you come last night? Why not this morning, whilst I’m out?”

Natasha knows what she’s asking. In many ways, it would have made more sense to have been sitting in the kitchen awaiting Laura’s return from the school run. That way, there would have been no chance of Cooper or Lila smelling a rat, no chance of Laura’s behaviour this morning tipping off watchful eyes. But she underestimates her own role in the operation, how much Natasha needs her as a partner.

“I need you at your best. And for that, you needed time.” Nate’s toddled back, and he starts tugging at Natasha’s pants leg. “And besides this isn’t just a job. I couldn’t have done that to you.”

Laura shakes her head, “You would have done, if it would have kept them safer. That’s why I trust you.” Her gaze bores into Natasha’s with the sort of open honesty she finds hard to face.

“Up!” The demanding voice comes from their feet with a further deliberate tug on Natasha’s pants. It gives her an excuse to look away.

Laura puts her hand on the doorknob, “We’re done, if you want to…?”

Natasha smiles, “I’d love to.” She sweeps Nate back up off the floor, and, as if on cue, Lila’s voice drifts up the stairs, “Mom, where’s my lunch?” She buries her face in Nate’s hair, breathes him in.

Laura rolls her eyes and opens the bedroom door to shout back down, “In the fridge. Same as every day.”

“I can’t find it.”

“Did you look behind anything, or did you just open the fridge and hope it would jump out?”

There’s an unintelligible grumble and her footsteps recede.

Laura looks back at her, “Breakfast?”

Natasha shakes her head, “Best not. I’ll eat after you’ve gone.”

Laura studies her critically, “We are not being held hostage to a ten year old having a temper tantrum.” Her voice is firm. 

Nate chooses that moment to start trying to bounce against her hip, his foot swinging up the small of her back and catching the knife wound in her side. She tries to smother her sharp intake of breath with a small shrug, “It’s fine.” 

“No, it’s not. Come down and eat. I’ll deal with Lila. And you’re taking more painkillers.”

Natasha’s lip quirks into the shadow of a smirk, “Yes Mom.”

“Don’t you start.”

Breakfast is an awkward affair. Lila glares daggers at Natasha as she enters the kitchen, but a few firm words from Laura have her grumpily packing her lunch into her school bag and slinking back upstairs without another word. Cooper’s quiet, glancing apologetically at her from behind his book as he methodically chews on his toast. She eats mechanically, the cereal tasting of cardboard, and tries to ensure the majority of Nate’s food ends up in his mouth and not on the floor. Then there’s suddenly a flurry of activity and shouting and lost sports kits before the door finally slams shut and Laura’s jeep pulls away down the lane.

The silence is almost tangible, an empty weight settling over the house.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long wait - real life got a bit difficult over the last few weeks, and I didn't have much time for writing. But, on the plus side, I ran into Tom Hiddleston at a work event last week! I mean, I say 'ran into', I actually just stood vaguely near him for a while and failed to think of a legitimate reason to talk to him... But still, it was pretty cool...
> 
> This whole story is now complete on my computer (over 100 pages of it...eek), with just some minor editing to do. So updates should be a lot faster from now on. And things will start to heat up in the next chapter...
> 
> Thanks for bearing with me!


	4. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hours that follow Laura and Nate’s return have a strange, unreal quality.

The hours that follow Laura and Nate’s return have a strange, unreal quality. Choosing what to take with them is a slow, painful process and they are both aware of the clock steadily ticking towards the hour of their departure. It’s not about essentials. That would be easy. Natasha’s packed for survival a thousand times. But on this occasion, beyond car snacks, emergency packed lunches and diapers, what they actually need for the journey is very little compared to what they are able to carry. But it’s a drop in the ocean compared with everything that constitutes a family’s life.

Laura breaks down in Lila’s bedroom just after lunch, Nate napping in the next room. She hurls her daughter’s first teddy bear against the wall and storms out into the garden. Natasha follows. 

“ _I hate this._ ” She screams it at the sky. It stares back with cold blue indifference. It’s stopped snowing.

“Laura—“

She turns on her, “Don’t. Just don’t. What the hell is your problem?”

“ _My_ problem?” 

“Yes _you_ , all of you. With your egos and power trips and now _my_ children have to lose their home and everything they own that doesn’t fit into the trunk of my car. And I’m scared Nat, I’m scared for their lives and my life and it’s not fucking fair. This isn’t our world. We didn’t ask for this!”

“And you think I did?! You think I wanted this? I tried so goddamn hard, but no-one would fucking listen.” Natasha shouts back.

“You should have tried harder.”

She spins on her heel and turns away from the house, her spine all hard lines, stiff and vibrating with anger. Natasha closes her eyes. A feeling of bone-aching weariness washes over her. She sits down hard on the step, runs a hand through her hair. Her voice is low, but carries clearly across the handful of yards and thousands of miles that separate them, “I lost everything too.”

It seems for a long time that Laura hasn’t heard her. She’s a frozen figure, silhouetted in the low winter sun. But eventually she turns around, “I know.”

She walks back slowly to join Natasha on the step, sitting close but not quite touching, still holding herself stiff and apart. 

“I need to be angry. Otherwise I’ll just cry.”

The step is old and wooden, the melting remnants of the morning’s frost seeping through the seats of their jeans. Natasha struggles with something, a myriad of expressions flitting across her face as Laura finally turns to look at her.

“What?”

She looks down, “I haven’t cried since I was six.” 

“That’s a lot of anger.”

“Yes it is.”

Laura’s shoulder finally touches hers, the warmth of her body slowly sinking into her side. She exhales slowly.

“I’m getting a damp butt.”

“Me too.” The corner of Natasha’s mouth lifts, just slightly, “Let’s go inside.”

They finish packing. It doesn’t stop being hard and painful. They whittle the kid’s paraphernalia down to a box apiece, and there’s just enough space for Laura and Clint’s wedding album and a shoebox of memorabilia to tessellate into the jeep’s trunk before they have to declare it full. 

They empty out the fridge and take out the trash. Laura takes Nate on one final round of the bedrooms, unplugging electricals as she goes. She finds Cooper’s half-finished book fallen down the side of his nightstand and tucks it in her purse. When she reaches the bottom of the stairs, Natasha’s carefully sliding a pair of knives into a sheath at the small of her back. She starts slightly, tucking Nate in towards her body. The other woman looks up.

“Sorry.” Laura’s not sure why she’s apologising. It just feels like she interrupted something private. She gestures vaguely, “I forget sometimes…” _I forget that you kill._

Natasha stands up, letting her jacket fall over the knives and checking her silhouette in the mirror. She’s swapped the bulky coat for a lighter, fitted one of Laura’s, something she can move in more easily and there’s no indication of what she’s carrying underneath. Laura wanders what else she might have hidden about her person. She reaches into her holdall and takes out a strangely shaped spray can.

“This is for you.”

“What is it?”

“Pepper spray. Well, sort of. Tony had some new ideas.”

Laura goes to slip it in her purse.

Natasha holds out a hand to stop her, “No. Keep it handy.” She mimes tucking it down the back of her pants, and suddenly the strangely flattened, rounded shape and moulded finger holds makes sense, but it’s still not exactly going to be comfortable to sit against. Natasha turns back to the holdall, and produces four passports.

“Take these too. I’ve kept the children’s first names the same.”

“Isn’t that….?”

“Dangerous? Possibly. But I don’t like the odds of them slipping up if I changed them.”

“So who am I?”

“Clare Wilson.”

“And you?”

“Maria Wilson.”

“Sisters?”

She nods, “It seemed easiest.”

“Where are we going?” Natasha seems calmer than she has all day, but Laura’s brain is starting to go into overdrive. She’s realising how much she wishes she’d asked these questions before, how much she just doesn’t know.

“Our mother’s ill. We’re moving back to take care of her. The rest of our stuff’s following in a van in a couple of days.”

“And where’s their father?”

“He has to stay home for work.”

Laura chews her lip thoughtfully.

Natasha grabs the car keys from the side, hoisting her bag over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, leave it to me. We’ll barely be talking to anyone. I’ll be waiting in the car.”

She doesn’t take her moment to say goodbye. She’s shifted gears. She’s on a mission and Agent Romanoff doesn’t have a thousand happy memories residing within these walls. She doesn’t need them.

The ache in her heart is just the painkillers wearing off. 

….

They drive in silence, mostly, Laura at the wheel and Nate dozing in his car seat in the back. They reach Lila’s school first, waiting in the car as she approaches with a small gaggle of friends. She scowls when she sees Natasha in the passenger seat and climbs into the back in highly offended silence. 

“How was your day?” Laura attempts to start a conversation as they pull away.

“Fine.”

“How was the math test?”

“Fine.”

“So everything was fine?”

Lila just rolls her eyes and pulls a book out of her bag to read. 

Cooper’s late getting out of school, running down the street to the car with his bag falling off his shoulder, coat trailing along the floor behind him. 

“Sorry Mom, Mr. Andrews kept us late because he found chewing gum stuck to the bottom of the desks.” He’s slightly breathless.

“Isn’t there chewing gum stuck to the bottom of every desk in that school?” Natasha asks.

“Yes. It was ridiculous.” He manages to untangle himself from coat and bag, and a small tussle of wills ensues between him and Lila as he tries to get her to move over into the middle seat. She steadfastly ignores him, noise buried in her book. 

“Coop, just climb over and sit in the middle.”

“Fine.” He tugs impatiently at the seatbelt and glances as Natasha curiously, “Are we going somewhere?”

She lets Laura answer, “I’ll explain when we stop for gas.”

Cooper shrugs, “Erm, ok, but I’ve got loads of homework. Mr. Andrews is an asshole.”

“Coop!” 

“Sorry, but he is. Anyway Nate’s asleep.” The corner of Natasha’s mouth twitches as he finally manages to get the seatbelt engaged. Laura gives her a disapproving look out of the corner of her eye.

The mile to the gas station passes quickly as Cooper relates the full details of the chewing gum incident (“We’re not even the only ones who use that classroom.” “I bet some of it’s been there for about a thousand years.”) Lila stares determinedly at her book, but at some point the pages stop turning and Natasha can see from her reflection in the rear view mirror that she’s listening and trying not to feel outraged on her brother’s behalf.

When Laura pulls up to the pumps, Natasha climbs out and fills the tank. She can feel Laura’s gaze upon her. She’s never seen her slip into a new skin. Maria Wilson is younger than Natasha, shyer and a little bit clumsy. She fumbles with the nozzle of the gas pump and has to squeeze the trigger a few times before it engages. In the shop, she takes her time browsing the aisles of snacks and studying the backs of every packet she picks up.

Natasha, meanwhile, keeps half an eye on the car parked outside. Laura’s swivelled around in her seat, talking seriously and Lila’s tucked her book away. She’ll be telling them something which is as close to the truth as she can. She’s never believed in lying to children, and a lie now is only going to make things harder later. Lila bursts into tears. 

She turns away and kills some more time at the coffee machine. It’s needlessly complicated and Maria makes a complete mess of her order and has to call on the cashier for help. She pays in cash when Laura accidentally-on-purpose leans on the jeep’s indicator, and juggles two coffees and a bag of snacks out to the car.

She opens the door cautiously. No-one speaks. She places both coffees carefully in the cup holder and the bag into the space next to her feet. Lila’s curled up in her seat, her hands wrapped around her knees and staring out the window. Cooper just looks a little shell-shocked, distractedly waving a toy rabbit in front of the newly awoken Nate.

“Coop.”

“What?”

“I need you to switch your phone off.”

His face falls. “Ok.”

They drive away.

…

They don’t take the interstate, wending their way through the country on smaller highways. It’s a delicate balance between not travelling an obvious route and not looking out of place. Everyone notices a new car on a quiet residential street.

As the sky turns to orange, Laura and Cooper begin a game of I-spy. Lila lets herself get drawn in after a few rounds and Nate shouts random words at disparate intervals. It’s Lila’s turn, with a mysterious ‘M’ which Cooper can see but she can only see part of. Natasha knows it’s ‘me’ but she keeps quiet and lets Lila bask in her own cleverness as the others give up. Cooper’s stomach rumbles and then he wrinkles his nose melodramatically, “Mom, Nate’s pooped.”

Natasha starts to let go of the tension thrumming across her shoulders. She’s been keeping a vigilant watch on the traffic in the wing mirror. They’re not being followed. Ross had a location whittled down to the nearest hundred miles, and the number and approximate ages of the kids, but no more. No names, no address, no photographs. And Tony’s been doing an excellent job of being a distracting pain in the ass for the last week, if the headlines she glimpsed in the gas station are to be believed.

They pull over next to a field just before the sun sinks below the horizon and tumble out of the car, stretching their legs and breathing in cool, fresh air. Natasha lays out a blanket on the grass, sitting down cross-legged and setting out sandwiches from a Tupperware she’s pulled out of the trunk, whilst Laura changes Nate on the backseat. Cooper joins her and, after a minute, so does Lila. She wordlessly offers her a sandwich, and the girl takes it with a muted “Thanks.” It’s progress, at least. 

Before long, the cold starts to eat its way into their bones and when Lila’s teeth start chattering, they roll up the blanket and retreat back into the warmth of the jeep. She catches Cooper’s eye in the rear view mirror, “Are you after something?”

“I was wondering about dessert..?”

“Well, as you asked so nicely.” She reaches into the bag of snacks at her feet, “Lila, do you want something?” 

“Yes please.” Miracle of miracles. She hands back two bars of chocolate and opens one for herself and Laura.

Soon, the two of them are whispering and giggling about something undecipherable. Natasha shoots a questioning look at Laura, who responds with a small shake of her head. _I have no idea._

They keep driving.

…

As darkness descends, the world shrinks down to the five of them, and the pool of tarmac lit up by their headlights. They wend their way through the flat countryside, the horizon a dim smudgy line between black and darker black in the distance. Lila and Nate have nodded off, Cooper allowed to plug into his iPod once Natasha has checked and triple-checked it’s old enough not to connect to the internet. 

Sitting in the dark, eyes flitting between the road ahead and behind, each other’s faces only visible in shadowy profile, it’s easier to discuss things that felt taboo in the brightness of the day. Natasha’s voice is low as she puts words to an idea that has plagued her for months.

“I never understood why he came.” 

Laura’s forehead creases in a frown, “Clint.” It’s not so much a question as an affirmation.

“Yes. I didn’t think he’d leave you.” Natasha reads people, it’s what has kept her alive. And Clint… she thought, once, that she knew him better than she knew herself. She shifts in her seat, kicking her shoes off and tucking her feet underneath her.

Laura’s eyes dart away from the road for a second, “Isn’t it obvious?”

Natasha’s eyes narrow a little, she turns to study her profile. She’d been expecting a different response, “Clearly not.”

“It was…” Laura seems to be searching for the right words, “He was fighting for you.”

Natasha’s laugh is bitter and forced, “Well that went well.”

Laura shakes her head, a small, sad smile forming on her lips, “No… not like that. That’s not what I meant.” She sighs, and shifts her grip on the steering wheel, “Not you then. The woman he chose not to kill all those years ago. The one who deserved a second chance.”

“Wanda isn’t me.”

“That’s not who I’m talking about.”

“Then who?”

Laura sighs, as if Natasha’s being truly dense, “Barnes."

“Oh.” Her brain seems to be processing at half speed. Her gaze continues to flit back and forth between windscreen and wing mirror as she lets that sink in.

Laura continues, “It was never about the politics. It was about not letting someone get shot through the head who didn’t deserve it.”

“We wouldn’t have let that happen.”

“Are you sure you could have prevented it?” Laura’s eyes dart across to her again for a second, her gaze sharp and penetrating.

Natasha steeples her hands together in her lap, holding tightly to herself. It’s a question that plagues her nightmares. _If we keep one hand on the wheel, we can still steer._ But how well? How fast? Not well enough, as it turns out. The three children in the back of the car are evidence of that.

“Do you wish he hadn’t?” It’s a stupid question, and yet it’s not.

“Yes…” Laura shakes her head, “No. I—“ She swallows. 

Natasha looks away, her gaze drifting back out the window and coming to rest on the wing mirror. There’s something she can’t quite put her finger on. She watches for a couple of seconds, her eyes narrowing.

“I wish—“ Laura continues.

Natasha’s voice is suddenly loud and harsh, “Laura. Headlights off. Now. Keep driving.” She’s out of her seat, belt off, scrambling around underneath the glove compartment.

“What are you—“

“NOW.” She clicks the switch and the world goes dark as Natasha resurfaces, “Brake lights.” She says, by way of explanation, “I rigged—It doesn’t matter. Undo your seatbelt.”

Laura can see them now, lights in the rear view mirror. “Are you sure they’re--?”

“Yes.” She’s turned around now, half kneeling on the armrest, shaking Lila awake with one hand and passing Cooper a half full sippy cup with the other. 

He pulls his headphones off. “What’s happening?”

“Feed this to Nate. Fast as you can.” Her voice is calm and sure. Lila blinks her eyes open in confusion, “Lila, undo you seatbelt and hold on tight.”

Laura’s fingers have turned white on the wheel as she squints into the blackness, not knowing whether it’s safer to ram her foot on the brake or the gas, “Nat—“

“Hang on. Coop, seatbelt off. Then get Nate out of his car seat and hold on to him. Ok?” She turns back around, sliding back into her seat, slipping off her jacket and pulling her shoes back on. Without the headlights, her pupils have expanded. There’s something up ahead. It’s a long way off, a dark vehicle-shaped smudge on the horizon. _Shit._

“Ok. Listen up. When I say ‘go’, Laura, pull off the road on the other side, stop the car and get out. Take the key.” Laura nods tightly, “Lila, get out your side. Coop, follow her with Nate.” She turns around in her seat again. Both children are pale and wide-eyed. She looks them in the eye, “Ok?” They both nod.

“Run up to the tree line—”

“There aren’t any trees.”

“There will be. Run to just past the tree line and hide. Be quiet. Stay together. And do not move until I come back for you.”

She glances up ahead again. The dark smudge has grown. 

“Laura.” 

“Yes.”

“Whatever you see, whatever you think you see, Do. Not. Move. I will come back.”

“What’s this for then?” Laura indicates the can of probably-deadlier-than-pepper spray against her back with a jerk of her head.

“My peace of mind.”

The car is deathly silent, Lila’s shallow, hitched breathing clearly audible from the backseat.

A dark shadow looms up on the left.

Natasha grips the door handle.

“Go.”

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'chewing gun' incident happened at my school when I was about Cooper's age. We were made to stay and scrape off the gum in our form room, despite the fact that a) we were far from the only students who used that room, and b) some of it had probably been there for 10 years... It was, in fact, ridiculous, and I'm still not entirely over it more than a decade later!


	5. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world stands still for a second, a moment of grace for Laura to convince herself this is actually happening.

The world stands still for a second, a moment of grace for Laura to convince herself this is actually happening.

And then it’s careening in fast forwards again, and she’s twisting the steering wheel, her foot slamming down on the brake, plunging into the darkness and silently praying to every god she’s ever heard of that she’s not going to hear a screech and a crash and wind up wrapped around a tree. The car skids to a halt just off the left hand side of the road, bumping over asphalt and spraying up dirt as it slows down. She dives out, opens the back door, lifting Lila onto her hip with one hand and helping Cooper scramble out with Nate with the other.

They run.

Up a steep bank, rising towards bushes which scratch at their ankles and then a few yards beyond, a small dense copse of trees. She pulls them all down into the undergrowth, gripping Lila with one arm and pulling the spray can from her jeans with the other. Cooper curls into her, holding the sleeping Nate tightly with both arms. She can feel him shaking, feel his heart beating a tattoo against her chest.

She presses a quick, soft kiss to Lila’s head, rocking her silently as she shivers in her arms. Cooper looks up at her, wide-eyed and pale, and they both turn back to the road, eyes searching for another figure, another shadow in the dark.

Laura spots her first. She’s crouched behind the car, head flicking from side to side, assessing the vehicles approaching from both directions, hands busy with something in front of her that Laura can’t make out. There’s a glint of metal, and then she tips her head back, listening, waiting. 

The first car pulls to a silent stop a few yards away. It expels four black clad figures onto the tarmac and they fan out across the road. Natasha stays hidden. 

Except that’s wrong, hiding’s what they’re doing. Natasha’s lying in wait. She’s a predator, every muscle tense and coiled to pounce. Cooper’s hand grips Laura’s arm tightly. She presses a kiss to his head.

Voices carry to them on the wind. Not English. Laura listens, focussing on the sounds, trying to make out words. Spanish, maybe? Portuguese? 

The second car pulls up. Four more figures spill out. Their headlights stay on, washing the tarmac in bright white. 

_Come on, Nat, do something._ Laura begs silently, as the seconds tick by and nothing seems to happen. The figures confer loudly, angry voices rising as they array themselves around the car.

Then, without warning, no discernible twitch or shift of weight to broadcast her intentions, Natasha moves. For a second, she’s standing atop the car, silhouetted in the headlights. There’s a gun in her hand and Laura has no idea where she was hiding it. She fires twice, and then she’s gone again, somersaulting over heads and landing feet first in the chest of the figure furthest away. He goes down with a strangled cry. 

From her vantage point, Laura can only see half the fight. Their height helps, but it’s only a small roadside bank and the car sits in front of them, a barrier between them and the road. She realises that Natasha designed it that way. 

There are more gunshots, more shouting. She does her best to cover Lila’s ears with one hand. She can make out at least three bodies lying still on the ground.

And then. Laura’s heart enters her throat. A small, lithe figure bursts out from behind the car. She dives, staggers and hits the tarmac hard. One arm is hanging awkwardly, and she grips her stomach with the other. Cooper turns, stricken, “Mom!” It’s barely a squeak, but it sounds loud, right next to her ear. Laura presses a finger to her lips. 

“She’s ok. She’s going to be ok.” She breathes it into his ear, a promise to herself as much as to him.

Natasha’s struggling to get up, blonde hair washed aflame by the headlights, and Laura thinks she can make out a dark stain spreading across her t-shirt. There are three other figures still standing, and they approach her slowly. Laura starts running calculations in her head. How far and how fast and how can she keep the three warm bodies pressed against her safe at the same time. 

But she holds herself together, holds herself still, because she gave Nat her word and her trust, whatever she saw, and that has to be worth something. _Whatever you think you see._ The words ring in the back of her mind and she holds onto them tightly.

One of the figures kicks Natasha in the side and she curls in on herself. Laura bites down on her lip, tastes blood. They’re talking again, and she can see her lips moving, but her voice doesn’t carry to them. The tallest figure bends down, gets right up in her face and starts shouting. Laura makes out a few words. _Puta_ she knows.

Charming.

There’s a glint of metal in his hand as he steps over Natasha. Cooper’s frozen at her side. She tries to pull him towards her, tries to hide his face, but he won’t move, his gaze is fixed on the road. The figure grabs Natasha’s wrist.

Her brain is screaming at her to look away, but she can’t bring herself to do it.

Her heart thunders.

Laura will never be able to describe exactly what happened next. 

One moment, Natasha is lying prone on the tarmac, and the next she’s on her feet, her would-be-killer’s arm twisted behind his back, his gun in her hand as she throws him at his comrades. He takes several bullets for her and falls to the ground. It’s all over in a matter of seconds. Two more gunshots ripple through the air, and the remaining two figures drop like stones.

The air leaves Laura’s lungs in a rush, the breath she’d been holding escaping suddenly in a cloud of fog. She has to grab Cooper’s sleeve as he makes to get up.

“No.” She whispers, and it sounds loud in the sudden silence, “We stay here and we wait for her to come back.”

He sits back down, and she allows herself to close her eyes for a second, to breathe slowly. She’s watched Nat and Clint spar enough times, caught glimpses on the news after New York and Sokovia and Berlin. But this, life or death in the dark in the middle of nowhere. This is… something else. 

She loosens her grip on Lila, stroking her hair gently, “Hey sweetheart, it’s over, everything’s going to be alright.”

She looks up slowly, blinking in bewilderment. She still has sleep in the corner of her eye. This must all feel like a nightmare, like she never woke up. “Is Auntie Nat ok?”

Laura nods, trying not think too hard about the dark stain on her midriff as she watches Natasha pull bodies off the road, seemingly unimpeded by any injury, “She’s ok. We just have to wait here a few minutes until she comes back.”

Lila starts to cry, silently, her shoulders shaking and tears streaking her face. Laura pulls her close, “Hey, shhh, it’s ok. Everything’s going to be ok.” The promise feels empty, with the smell of gunpowder still lingering in the air.

Cooper puts a hand on his sister’s shoulder, nudging her to look at him, “It is. I promise. I saw everything.” Laura closes her eyes briefly at that, trying not to think too hard about what it is that he’s seen. There’ll be time, later, when she’ll have to confront this, when she’ll have to deal with the fact that her thirteen year old son has just watched his aunt kill eight men. But for now she’s just grateful for his help. 

By now, Natasha has hotwired one of the cars, and the sound of an engine revving into life makes Laura start. She drives it onto the field on the other side, and then makes short work of the other. Eventually, the road is clear and dark again. 

Natasha makes her way towards them, scaling the bank in one graceful leap. She stops a few yards away and scans the shadows. Her eyes alight on Laura’s. “Hey. It’s over. Come out.” She’s breathing hard.

They clamber slowly to their feet, Laura patting herself down and trying to remember where she’d put the car key in her hurry to get out. She finds it in her back pocket and fishes it out with one hand. Cooper is sagging next to her.

“Nat, could you grab Nate?”

Natasha takes a quick step back, “No. I can’t. I’m sorry.” 

Laura tries to look at her properly then, but the sliver of moon is behind her, and she can’t make out much more than a silhouette. 

Natasha continues, and she seems to be holding her voice very carefully, “Coop, can you take Nate and Lila and get back in the car please?”

Cooper looks up at Laura, and she nods, handing him the key, “Go on, love, we’ll be with you in a minute.”

She takes a step towards her then, bracing herself, half-expecting the other woman to keel over as the children walk away, “Are you hurt?”

She shakes her head, “No. But…” She holds up her hands, “I’m covered in blood.”

Laura closes her eyes for a second, a strange mixture of revulsion and relief washing over her. She can smell it now, the sharp tang of iron, “This ninja-warrior thing isn’t nearly as glamorous as it sounds, is it?”

Natasha forces out a laugh, “Nope.”

“Hang on. Sit down. I’ll get some stuff from the car.”

Natasha sits on the grass, adrenaline leaking out of her and her breath coming hard and fast. She can feel bruises blooming on her ribs. Now she’ll have a matching set on both sides. She runs a hand around her back, feeling carefully along Tony’s stitches. They’re still intact, and she’s fairly sure the stickiness is coming from her hand. She lies back and lets the cool ground sink into her bones. 

Laura climbs back up with a carrier bag in one hand, and a beat-up first aid kit in the other. She pulls out a bottle of water, a flashlight, wet wipes, and a change of clothes as Natasha sits up.

“Where do you want to start?”

Natasha holds out her right hand palm up and, in the light of the flashlight, Laura sees a deep gash across her palm. She locates the antiseptic wipes, and hands her one. She starts to clean it out.

“How did that happen?”

“I did it.”

Laura raises an eyebrow, “Why?”

She gestures to the blood stain on her T-shirt, “It made them think I was weak.”

“I presume the broken arm was fabricated too?”

Natasha nods, focused on her hand.

“You scared the shit out of me.”

She looks up, a crease between her eyebrows and her voice seems to come from a long way away “Sorry.”

“No. Don’t be. You saved our lives.”

She purses her lips tightly, and gives a small shake of her head, “No, I didn’t.”

Laura doesn’t probe further straight away. She bandages up Natasha’s hand and helps her remove her t-shirt. She starts sluicing water over herself and doesn’t seem to feel the cold air. Her skin is still radiating heat, but her breathing is evening out, her heartrate slowing. 

“Who were they?”

“My fault.” Natasha’s skin is almost translucent, and Laura can map her body in scars. 

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing to do with you. They came for me.”

Laura asks again, “Who were they?”

“I… disrupted their business in Lima.” She doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t look like she wants to.

“But how..?”

Natasha finishes cleaning herself, and turns to look at her, “How did they find us?” 

Laura nods, handing her the pile of clothes.

She grimaces, “I… I don’t know.” That’s the part that scares her the most. “Someone must have recognised me, maybe…” She trails off, eyes screwed shut, racking her memory of the last two days. The idea that she could have been followed for more than twenty four hours and not have noticed is eating away at her. But that’s not the part that Laura fixates on as her eyes widen and her face pales.

Natasha gives a sharp shake of her head, “No, not like that, not as me. They don’t know who I am. I made sure of that. We had a nice chat. There won't be any more of them.”

Laura relaxes a little. 

Natasha’s fully dressed again now, her hair slightly damp and goosebumps standing up on her bare arms. “They got a beacon on the car in the gas station, otherwise I’d have noticed the tail earlier. I’ve destroyed it.” She closes her eyes, remembering the exact moment when her attention had wavered, when she’d deliberately turned her back. When she looks back at Laura her voice is low and her gaze is direct.

“I shouldn’t have come.” She exhales slowly, “I could have gotten you all killed.”

Laura doesn’t answer straight away, trying to process, to see through the murk of adrenaline which is fast morphing into relieved hysteria. She can feel her hands starting to shake. 

“It’s…We’re here now. I’ve always known—” She stops, trying to get her hands back under control, “With Clint, and SHIELD, it was a risk. It’s always been there. I don’t—“ She stands up slowly, unsure how that sentence ends, “Besides, Ross is still looking for us, that hasn’t changed. We couldn’t have stayed.”

Natasha shakes her head cynically, “I could have sent someone else.”

“I might not have trusted someone else.”

She doesn’t reply for a moment, staring out at the cloudy sky. Breathing slowly, she collects her bloodstained clothes and stuffs them into the carrier bag. “I’m done. Let’s get back in the car. We need to move.”

They hurry down the bank.

…

The drive onwards is silent. Natasha is stiff-backed, almost vibrating with tension. Laura’s fingers keep clenching and unclenching on the wheel. 

“Right here.”

The indicator light ticks loudly in the silence as she directs the jeep down yet another dark road bordered by identical fields and identical trees and the occasional scattering of identical white-boarded houses. She’s completely lost all sense of direction. There’s just the road and the wheel, the glinting reflection off Cooper’s pupils in the rear view mirror and Natasha’s sporadic, terse instructions.

It’s nearly midnight when they pull-in to a roadside motel in the middle-of-precisely-nowhere, South Dakota. Laura’s eyelids are starting to droop, and she shuts off the engine with a relieved sigh. Natasha’s transforming again, her body language shifting, changing before her very eyes into her shy, slightly awkward, and entirely fictional younger sister. 

“Have we got reservations?”

“Yes. Under your name.” Natasha gathers Laura’s purse from under her feet and hands it to her. They have, in fact, got ten different reservations in ten different motels under five different sets of identities, all within a two to three hundred mile radius of home.

Laura twists around to look at the children in the backseat. Cooper had been dozing, but he’s blinking awake now in the brightness of the floodlit parking lot. Lila and Nate are dead to the world.

“Nat, could you..?” 

“That’s not my name.”

Laura blinks, and then shakes herself slightly, “Right. Maria, could you take Nate?”

“Sure thing.” She smiles. It’s bright and genuine, but it’s not Nat’s smile and it gives Laura the creeps.

They make their way across the parking lot carrying a sleeping child apiece, Nate’s diaper bag slung over Natasha’s shoulder and Cooper grumpily trundling their overnight suitcase along behind him. 

“Why don’t I get to be carried in?” He’s being knowingly ridiculous. It’s been years since Laura’s been able to hoist him onto her hip. As it is, she nearly drops Lila as she reaches for the handle of the large glass entrance door. 

“Sorry Coop, eldest child syndrome. It’s the price you pay for not getting hand-me-downs.” Natasha grabs the case from him with her free hand, “Go on, get the door, I can manage this.”

Thankfully, the reception desk is still manned and the bored-looking attendant checks them in and hands out keys with minimal conversation. The lift is broken, and it’s a long trudge up three flights of stairs to their rooms on the top floor.

“Wait here.” Natasha puts down her bags and hands Nate to Cooper, before unlocking the doors one at a time and sweeping both rooms. After a minute or two, she pops her head out again, “We’re good, come in.”

There’s a double and a twin, sparse but neat and clean, with cupboard-like ensuite bathrooms and adjoining doors. Natasha’s taken the Bibles from the nightstands to use as doorstops.

“Ah, so those things are useful for something.” Laura says, as she lays Lila down gently on the double bed.

Natasha gives a small smirk, “How do you want to do this?”

“Hm.” Laura looks around, “How about you and Coop take the twins? Lila, Nate and I can sleep in the double.”

Natasha nods. It was what she had been going to suggest, “You alright with that, Coop?”

“Sure.”

Laura smiles, “See, eldest child syndrome also means you get your own bed.”

Natasha doesn’t intend to sleep, but she swaps her jeans for leggings, and joins the clamour of teeth brushing and face washing for the kid’s sake as much as anything. Nate wakes briefly whilst Laura’s sleepwalking Lila through getting ready for bed, and Natasha can read the brief moment of relief that flashes across her face.

Once everyone’s settled and Laura switches the light off in the other room, Natasha slips out of bed and curls up in the window seat, eyes fixed on the road outside. The sky is overcast, and passing cars skip from one pool of orange streetlight to another, vanishing in the pitch darkness in between. It’s the sort of night that she belongs to, all shadows and dark corners and the smudgy gloom in between. It’s the sort of night where a mark could be dead before they knew she was there. 

She glances over at Cooper, at the fluff of mousy hair sticking up above the blanket. There’s a knot of fear slowly building in the pit of her stomach, a dread the likes of which she’s never known. Visceral is the only word she can find to describe it. It makes her feel sick. There was meant to be a way of keeping things separate. Different personas for different people. She’s whittled them down over the years, thought about them less consciously and found enough truth to root them in something she identifies as ‘self’, but it’s still the only way she knows to survive. She was never meant to be standing next to Cooper with blood on her hands.

The temperature in the room is dropping, and goosebumps stand up along her arms. Without taking her eyes off the window, Natasha reaches across and pulls Bruce’s hoodie from the foot of the bed. She drapes it around her shoulders, staving off the cold. 

The night is quiet, cars passing only occasionally. Her eyes dart between parking lot, road and woods opposite, examining the shadows with the laser-sharp focus of someone who knows how to hide within them. She shifts slightly, finding a more comfortable position.

She’s going to be here all night, after all.


	6. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s about halfway to dawn when Natasha’s vigil is interrupted by a small noise from behind her. It’s a sound she knows well, somewhere between a scream and a whimper, and when she turns around Cooper’s thrown the covers off and is staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, sweat glistening on his brow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end note for warnings

It’s about halfway to dawn when Natasha’s vigil is interrupted by a small noise from behind her. It’s a sound she knows well, somewhere between a scream and a whimper, and when she turns around Cooper’s thrown the covers off and is staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, sweat glistening on his brow. She pads over to him silently.

“Hey Coop.” He’s wearing a set of threadbare dinosaur pyjamas that he’s had for about four years and refuses to get rid of, even as the cuffs slowly ride up his ankles.

His eyes swivel to focus on her, and he exhales slowly, “Hi.”

“Nightmare?” She keeps her voice low, wary of the open door and Laura, Nate and Lila snoring gently on the other side.

Cooper nods.

“Want to talk about it?”

A small shake of his head.

“Ok.” She perches on the edge of the bed, “Want me to get your Mom?”

Another small shake of his head, “No. I’m ok.” He’s scrunching his face up now, as if he’s trying to shake something from his mind. 

“I find it helps if you get out of bed for a bit, do something else.”

He thinks about this for a moment, and then his eyes widen a little, “You get nightmares?”

Natasha gives a little laugh, “Oh yes.” 

“What about?”

She presses her lips together for a moment, trying to decide how to answer, “Some things I wish never happened, and some things I hope never will. Not as much as I used to, though.”

“That’s good.”

“Yes it is.” She stands up again, “Come and sit with me for a bit?” She’s itching to get back to the window, remembering what happened the last time she turned her back.

Cooper’s still pale and shivery, and his eyes keep darting around as she pulls him to sit next to her. It’s the unfamiliarity of the room, she knows, emerging from a nightmare and not being one hundred percent sure you’ve actually woken up. She fixes her eyes on the outside and thinks for a minute. Then she makes a decision.

“I’ve got an idea.”

He looks up at her. She’s still staring out of the window.

“It’s something your Dad and I used to do. Because it’s hard, isn’t it, when you wake up somewhere you don’t know and you’re not entirely sure you’re actually awake?”

He nods.

“But the sky’s always familiar. Wherever you are in the world. It all shifts around a bit, but it’s still essentially the same. So he used to take me up to the roof. It helped. Want to give it a go?”

Cooper shrugs, “Ok.”

“Put your shoes and coat on. I’ll write your Mom a note in case she wakes up.”

She gathers her own shoes and jacket, and then scribbles a note to Laura on the complimentary notepad on the table. She pins it to the door with a stray drawing pin, and then writes another note and leaves it on Cooper’s bed. The last things she wants is to give Laura a heart attack if she wakes up and finds they’ve gone. 

She puts the room key in her pocket and takes Cooper’s hand, leading him out into the corridor.

“Come on, it’s been a while since we’ve had an adventure.”

He still looks pale, but he grins at her.

They make their way up the stairs at the end of the corridor and Natasha tries the door leading to the roof. It’s locked. She grimaces and pulls a couple of hair pins from her pocket. The door’s not alarmed.

“Auntie Nat?”

“Mm.” She has the first pin between her teeth, pulling off the rounded tip.

“Would these help?”

Cooper has pulled a set of lock picks out of his pocket, neatly arrayed in a small, black wallet. Natasha gapes at him.

“Where did you get those?”

“Dad was teaching me to use them.”

She rolls her eyes, “Of course he was.” She takes it from him and has the door open in a matter of seconds.

“Wow, you’re fast.”

She hands them back to him with a smirk, “Keep practicing.”

They make their way out onto the rooftop. A wind’s picked up. It ruffles their hair and runs its icy fingers under their clothing. Natasha pulls her coat tighter around her shoulders, but Cooper turns his face into it, his cheeks turning pink.

“I like it out here.”

“Not many stars tonight. Too many clouds and too many streetlights.”

“I can see the moon though. That’s the same as at home.”

Natasha inclines her head, leaning on the parapet and letting her eyes resume their scan of the landscape below. Cooper slides down next to her, sitting on the ground and leaning his back against the wall.

“Auntie Nat?”

“Mm.”

“Do you ever get scared?”

“Yes.”

“You never look scared.”

“I’m good at hiding it.”

He stays quiet for a while, plucking bits of gravel off the floor and tossing them about. Natasha thinks she sees movement in the trees across the road, but it turns out to be a fox bringing home its dinner. Cooper looks up, squinting at the moon.

“Auntie Nat?”

“Mm.”

“Would you teach me to fight?”

She turns to look at him, “Why do you ask that?”

He breaks eye contact, looking down at the ground, “I could have helped, today.”

Natasha closes her eyes briefly, and then sighs, turning around and sinking down beside him, “No you couldn’t, Coop, that’s not your job.”

He rolls a pebble between his fingers, “But what if you hadn’t been there?”

“If I hadn’t been there, it wouldn’t have happened.” She feels the warmth radiating off of him, the cold stone roof seeping through her leggings. Cooper still has a chorister’s voice, the thickening fuzz on his upper lip yet to meet a razor for the first time. 

“I’m not… I’m not as good as you think I am Coop. And besides, it’s our job to look after you: your Mom’s and your Dad’s and mine.”

“But I want to be like you.”

“No, you don’t.” She shakes her head slowly. It makes her stomach turn, sometimes, when she sees him look at her like that. As if she’s no different to any other adult in his life. As if she’s someone who knows what’s best, who will look after him, who can show him how to navigate the world. As if she’s _safe._

“Look, Coop, I don’t know what’s going to happen after this. You know people are looking for me, don’t you?”

He nods, “Yeah, but—“

“No buts. This is serious. Once we get where we’re going, I can’t stay with you. I’m going to see what I can do about getting your Dad home, but I can’t promise anything. And I don’t know when I’ll next see you.”

“I know but…”

“So if you really want to learn something, I’m sure your Mom can find you some martial arts lessons. But it’s just for play, ok? Just for fun.”

He gives a comically world-weary sigh, and leans against her, tucking his head against her shoulder. 

“Cold?”

He shakes his head, “No. My butt’s frozen, but you’re warm so it evens out.”

She gives him a small smile, “Good, I think.”

Natasha’s feeling twitchy again, sitting with her back to the wall, unable to see the road. Her ears are pricked for the slightest sound.

“Auntie Nat?”

“Hm.” She’s starting to dread what might come next. 

“How did you learn to fight?”

She sighs, looking up at the sky for a second, “Sorry Coop, that’s a story for another time.” _Or perhaps never. Preferably never._ She knows it’ll come, one day soon, when it occurs to one of them to plug her name into Google and everything comes tumbling out. But she’ll hold onto them as long as she can before that happens. Hold on to the part of herself that only exists in their eyes.

He looks curiously at her, a crease between his eyebrows. She doesn’t often refuse to answer his questions. 

“Some things are hard to talk about. Like your nightmare.”

“Ok.” She tilts her head slightly, ears pricking.

“Auntie Na—“

“Shh.” She squeezes his hand. There’s a vehicle slowing down. Something fairly big. She twists into a crouch, standing slowly, grateful that the rooftop is unlit. 

There’s a van pulling into the parking lot.

It’s nearly 4am.

A door slams. The driver gets out. He’s dressed in black. 

_No no no no no._

It’s like she’s entered a nightmare. A cycle of everything she dreads, again and again and again. This was supposed to be straightforward.

She drops down behind the parapet again, grabs Cooper’s shoulder.

His voice is a shaky whisper, “Is someone here?”

“I think so. Go and wake your Mom. Get them ready to leave. Wait for me.”

She runs off along the rooftop without glancing back, shedding her jacket at the top of the fire escape, practically flying down, silent as death, dropping at the bottom and landing on the concrete pavement in a crouch. She has two remaining widow’s bites she’s been saving in the pocket of her hoodie. She grabs them, and then sheds that too, leaving it in a crumpled heap on the ground. There are still two knives strapped to her back. Should be enough, whoever it is.

The parking lot is now the other side of the building, and she sprints back along the wall, pressing herself into the shadows against the concrete just around the corner. The van has emptied, and she counts eight figures wending their way between the vehicles. Two and two and two and two. Someone knocks something against a car and a loud clang rings out into the night sky. All of them freeze. 

A harsh whisper pierces the air. It’s low, sure and distinctly American, “Fucksake Reynolds, no witnesses, you got that? Ross wants this kept quiet.” 

Not her friends from Lima then. She removes her hand from the handle of a knife, fingers the discs in her hand. Adding murder charges to her already full rap sheet isn’t on the top of her to-do list. She lines up her first target. This is going to have to be quick.

Both bites leave her hand at once as she flicks her index finger to send them in two different directions. Two sparks and two muffled grunts tell her they’ve hit their marks, the two men heading around towards the fire escape crumpling in the dust. But she doesn’t stop to check, she’s already running to head off the pair aiming for the main entrance.

There’s a muffled shout somewhere to her right, “She’s here.” And then she’s vaulting lightly over a battered Honda, skidding on the icy metal and landing hard on the shoulders of the source of the noise. She follows him to the ground, and then rolls off him and kicks him in the head. She can feel a whisper of air moving behind her, a fist headed straight for the back of her skull. She twists to the side suddenly, one hand reaching to grab it, her momentum perfectly angled to flip him over her hip and land him beside his companion.

But before she can do so, in the frozen instant before flesh meets flesh, a horribly familiar scream rips through the air.

_No._

She falters. (She never falters.) She misses her grip. The fist slides through, scuffing her thumb and landing harmlessly in the air six inches from her head, but she barely even notices. Her entire body is focussed on the source of the scream. She sprints towards it, the owner of the fist hot on her heels.

And then there’s a scuffle and a faint cry, and her heart clenches, freezing in her chest as a small figure’s pulled into the lane between the cars, dinosaur pyjamas not quite grazing his ankles, a gun held to his head.

The world crystallises, held still just long enough for her to calculate the distance between them, to examine the position of the safety and the finger poised on the trigger. Just long enough to visualise the bullet exiting his brain, to see herself making contact half a second too late.

“On your knees, Widow. Hands on your head.” 

His voice pierces the air between them like an arrow to the heart.

Natasha doesn’t even think. Neurons fire ears-eyes-muscles and she drops to her knees on the tarmac.

“Let him go.” 

Her voice is low and dangerous, fear buried deep in her gut and only rage spilling out of her eyes.

“I don’t think so, sweetheart. Cuff her and search her.”

Her gaze hunts for Cooper’s as someone pulls her wrists down behind her back, cold metal biting in tighter than necessary. His eyes are screwed shut and he’s shaking almost imperceptibly. _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry._ The litany repeats, over and over, filling her brain as they shackle her ankles together and then there are rough hands running down her body. They find the knives quickly enough, and then spend an unnecessary amount of time searching for weapons hidden in her bra. She swallows down bile and burns the man’s face into her memory. Slightly lopsided eyebrows, a smattering of freckles across his noise. She’ll know him again.

There’s nothing else to find. She’s wearing her freaking _pyjamas_ for fucksake. They let go of her, shoving her roughly forwards, hoping to see her face hit the dirt. She stays solid, immovable, knees grinding into the tarmac, eyes still locked on Cooper. 

The man in front of her clicks the safety back on, holsters his gun, keeping a tight grip on his arm. He’s not a large man, but his presence says undeniably that he’s in charge. 

Natasha exhales slowly, emptying her lungs and filling them again, kick-starting her brain. She rolls back on her toes, landing on her feet in one deliberate, graceful motion which she knows will scare the shit out of them. 

“You’ve got what you want. Now let him go.”

He laughs then, quiet still, but full of genuine mirth, “You think we came here for you? We’re taking them all in. You’re just a bonus. One rogue _Avenger_ down already.” The way he say Avenger is mocking, a taunt.

Cooper’s eyes, which had opened cautiously when the muzzle of the gun had been removed from the side of his head, widen in horror. Natasha finds his gaze and holds it. _I’m going to make this alright. I don’t know how, but I will. Trust me._ She feels sick.

“Has Ross really sunk that low?” Her voice is scathing, “He wants to take a baby into custody just to bring us into line?” She spits at the ground. It’s all theatre. If she can rile them, if she can make them angry, they’ll make a mistake. They always do.

“The world has changed, Widow. You don’t rule the world any more. You don’t have rights.”

She nods in acknowledgement, inclining her head at Cooper, “But they do.” She takes a small step towards him. She can’t move far in the shackles, but it’s about the body language, about her presence, “What do you think the world would say if they could see what you were doing right now? Holding a gun to a little boy’s head? How long do you think Ross would last if this got out?” She looks him straight in the eye, lets a knowing smirk find its way onto her lips, “How long do you think you would?”

She just needs him to doubt, to wonder. She just needs a second of hesitation. She takes a gamble.

“When do you really think I last saw Tony Stark?”

She sees the movement out of the corner of her eye half a second too late.

“Coop, no—!”

He’s wrenched himself out of the man’s grasp, his free elbow rising to smash into the rear window of the hatchback parked next to them. It doesn’t shatter, but the window pane cracks and the alarm goes off with a wail that shatters against her eardrums.

“You little bastard!” He grabs Cooper by the arm again, “Clear out. NOW.”

It’s chaos. Natasha’s practically thrown bodily into the back of the van, her feet scrambling to find purchase. She’s facing the wrong way. She can’t see Cooper and she can’t hear him, and that scares her more. There are too many pairs of hands on her. And voices shouting. Four. At least four. 

Something hits her hard in the side of the head as she struggles to turn around. She blinks away stars and feels the engine rumbling to life. There are hands on her shoulders and in her hair, forcing her down. She tries to bite one of them, and someone kicks her knees out and she falls, pitching forwards as the van lurches out of its parking space in reverse. They lock the cuffs and shackles to a few inches of chain connected to the floor behind her, forcing her to kneel.

“Secure.”

“Fucking hell.”

The hands leave her. She’s still facing the wrong way.

She stares at the divider for a second, breathing, listening. She counts the breaths and mutters she can hear behind her. Five. One she recognises. She feels her stomach lurch, a brief flare of hope slowly dying. She turns, twisting against the pull in her shoulders, head over her right shoulder. A bench runs down either side. On her right, wonky eyebrows and another man, on her left, if she cranes her neck hard and forces her eyes to their extremities, two unknown assailants and Cooper sat between them. The man with the gun must be in the cab.

Rage burns in her gut.

Wonky eyebrows stands up suddenly, fists a hand in her hair, twisting hard. “Face the fucking front.” He shouts it, spittle spraying her ear. 

She resists, holds absolutely still, impervious to pain. “I’m not taking my eyes off him.”

They swear and shout, and so she doesn’t. She holds the power, that way.

He twists tighter and her eyes start to water. Cooper is staring at her. She catches his gaze and holds it.

“Oh, come on Anderson, we’ll just put him at the end of the bench. It’s not worth the hassle. She’s not going anywhere.” 

The voice comes from the man on Cooper’s left. He’s nursing a bite mark on his hand. She doesn’t remember her teeth making contact, but maybe they did. He makes to stand up, and Anderson grunts and lets go of her hair. 

She nods at Cooper, and he slides down the bench to sit next to her. She turns back around.

“Auntie Nat—“ He whispers it. She interrupts him.

“Are you hurt?”

He shakes his head.

“Good.”

She lets out the breath she’s been holding, lets her expression settle. Her next utterance is barely controlled fury.

“Did you follow me?”

“No…”

“Coop. Don’t lie to me.” Her eyes bore into him.

“I didn’t. I came down the other way. I…” He trails off.

There’s an angry, muttered discussion happening behind her, but she ignores it. The world shrinks down to the two of them.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Her voice is slow and deliberate, eyes dangerous. He’s never seen her angry before, never like this. His voice is small, “I thought I could help. I thought—“

“No. You don’t do that. You could have been killed.” She turns away.

“But—“

She turns back to him. “No.” Her voice softens a fraction, “What the hell do you think I could have told your mother if you’d been hurt?” 

“I—“ He deflates, “Sorry.”

“From now on, Cooper Barton, you do exactly as I say. You do not move a finger unless I tell you. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

She looks him over, checking that he really is unhurt, then she sighs, “Sometimes I think you get too much from your father.”

It’s a slightly strange way to word it. Natasha sees Cooper’s hand twitch slightly near his pocket, his eye widening in understanding. She nods her head, just a fraction.

“You’ve got to be patient, Coop.”

The muttering behind her breaks out into an angry shout, “Will you shut the fuck up?” It’s wonky eyebrows Anderson again.

Natasha presses her lips together and stares straight ahead. 

She doesn’t say another word.  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Warnings: This chapter contains one instance of sexual harassment (groping), and a child is abducted (although accompanied by an adult)_


	7. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha keeps track of the miles as they travel. They soon leave the territory she’s studied, but she has a good sense of direction. She thinks they’re around two hundred miles almost directly due east of the motel in South Dakota when they finally pull to a stop.

Natasha keeps track of the miles as they travel. They soon leave the territory she’s studied, but she has a good sense of direction. She thinks they’re around two hundred miles almost directly due east of the motel in South Dakota when they finally pull to a stop.

“Bag them. And keep hold of the kid.” It’s the voice of reason she recognises from the man with the bitten hand. She looks at Cooper, and speaks for the first time in nearly four hours. He’s nearly been lulled asleep by the motion of the van but now his eyes are wide open and he looks terrified.

“Be patient. It’s going to be ok.” She murmurs. His eyes lock onto her and he nods deliberately. It’s a reminder and a promise, as much as she can make one.

Someone drops a hessian bag over her head and the world goes dark. She locates Cooper’s fast, shallow breathing and focuses on it, following him with her mind. Someone’s fumbling behind her, unlocking her from the floor. They yank her to her feet and her knees creak, muscles seizing as she tries to stand. Natasha stumbles, twisting and falling backwards into Cooper with a grunt.

Their hands meet. She tucks the lock pick into the waistband of her leggings.

A hand grabs her upper arm roughly, pulling her straight, and giving her a hard shake. “Stop messing around.”

“Alright, Jesus,” She mutters just loudly enough for them to hear, “I’ve been sat in the same position for four hours. I’m not actually super human.”

They pull her forwards. She has to jump awkwardly off the back of the van. The world is muffled through hessian, but she holds onto Cooper’s breathing, just behind her and to the left.

The ground is hard. Tarmac. Sunlight and shadows reach her eyes. The sun’s up. They walk about fifty yards, up some steps, down a narrow alley, and then they’re inside. The acoustics change. The corridor is wide, low-pile carpet tiles, like an office. Down more stairs. Concrete now. More reverberant, doors slamming and footsteps clipping loudly on the polished floor. Cooper’s breathing still behind her, faster, shallower. _Please don’t have a panic attack._

They enter a medium-sized room. Still concrete. She’s pushed backwards and her hands meet a wall. _Finally._ Cooper’s next to her now, a foot of empty space between them. She counts five, maybe six other people. She shifts, slipping the tool between her fingers.

The door opens and shuts. The bag’s pulled off her head. She blinks in the glare of a fluorescent light. Six other people. Four from the back of the van, plus the one who grabbed Cooper and seems to be the leader, and one other person. Possibly the driver.

“Search them.”

She stays absolutely still whilst her fingers work behind her. Her thumb is clumsy from yesterday’s self-inflicted knife wound and she hasn’t seen the cuffs and it takes a few frustratingly long moments to find the key hole.

Someone points at Cooper, “Take your coat off.”

He looks up at her, as if for permission. _Good boy._ She nods at him. 

_Be slow, please be slow._

He fumbles with the zip. Natasha’s found the keyhole and is working on disengaging the double-lock. It’s stiff and the cuffs have given her pins and needles in her fingers. The pick slips in her hand. She gets a better grip on it, tries again.

Cooper pulls his arms out of his jacket and hands it over. The lock is still sticking.

Mr. Reasonable is searching the coat, whilst another man pats Cooper down. 

“What the hell do you think you’re gonna find in his pyjamas?” She leans off the wall suddenly. She needs to distract them. If they find the rest of the lockpicks in Cooper’s coat, it’s all over.

The man in charge, the man who’d held a gun to Cooper’s head takes a threatening step towards her. She can see him now, make out the lines of his nose and his jaw. She burns his face into her memory too.

“Keep your mouth shut.”

A mocking _or what_ dances in the air, but she holds her tongue. Cooper’s free, unencumbered and at her side where she has the best chance of protecting him. She can’t risk that changing.

A final hard twist, and she feels a satisfying click. She’s only going to have time for one hand but the second lock, the one that actually releases the cuffs, is much more straightforward. She inserts the pick back into the keyhole.

“Johnson, what’s that?” He’s glanced away from her, looking curiously at the man searching Cooper’s coat.

Mr Reasonable has found the wallet. He’s opening it. 

“Hey, isn’t it my turn for a pat down?” It’s a last desperate bid for attention. As she says it the cuff releases, but it’s too late. He’s got it open. He’s seen what’s inside.

“Someone hold the kid!” Cooper lets out a small cry as his hand’s twisted behind his back.

Natasha takes half a step forward, still holding her hands behind her back, trying to see the angle, to see their way out. “Stop it. Let him go.” She comes up with nothing but a desperate plea.

“Shut up and don’t move!” There’s a gun pointed at her chest now, and her wrists are free and on any other occasion she could have disarmed him, taken it for herself and fought her way out, even with her ankles shackled less than a foot apart. But Cooper is whimpering behind her and she _can’t._

She holds herself perfectly still.

“Sir, there’s one missing.”

He removes the safety, looks her in the eye. “Drop it and kick it over.”

She hesitates, “Drop what?”

“Don’t play games with me. Drop it now.” Natasha grits her teeth.

The pick tinkles to the ground behind her and she nudges it across the floor with her foot. Johnson bends to pick it up, turns it over, examines it. “Huh, nice set.” He winks at her, and she resists the urge to spit.

“Now, turn around. Slowly.”

She does so. 

“Kneel.”

She does that too, her knees hitting the concrete hard. Someone approaches her from behind and re-locks the cuffs. They search her again, more thoroughly, but it’s a different person this time, someone who can at least be professional about it. She doesn’t really care. 

It’s through a fog that she feels a boot hit her side, and she hears the sharp intake of breath as if it comes from someone else. Cooper’s short cry sounds like it’s a very long way away. Fingers dig into her bare arms and haul her to her feet. 

“Lock them up. Ross wants to see them later.” The name sends a little lightening spark of anger through her brain and she mentally shakes herself. _Focus, Romanoff._ She’s so fucking tired.

Down a corridor. More stairs. A row of empty cells. Cooper goes in one, herself opposite. Cooper’s has a pallet bed, a sink and a toilet with waist high partitions giving the illusion of modesty. Hers is empty. There are two more unoccupied furnished cells. Natasha sees them and wants to throw up.

The doors clang shut and lock electronically. 

“Stand by the bars, face the wall.” Johnson orders.

She hesitates, and he waves a key at her, “Unless you want to lose the feeling in your arms.”

She complies, and he releases the cuffs and shackles, tucking them into a pocket, “Have fun.” He saunters off, following his colleagues down the corridor. 

They’re alone.

Natasha rolls her shoulders slowly, working the feeling back into her fingertips. She slides down the wall, leaning against the bars. 

Cooper mirrors her on the other side.

“Auntie Nat?”

“Yes?”

“Are you ok?”

She looks across at him. Her ribs hurt like a bitch, but nothing’s broken. “Yes, I’m ok. Are you?”

“My arm hurts.”

She clenches her hands into fists, “How badly?”

“Not that badly.”

She scrutinises him across the passageway. He didn’t get his coat back, and so she can see every line and shadow of him. He _looks_ ok. Physically, at least. She aches to touch him, to be sure.

“Can you move it normally?”

He wriggles around, stands up and windmills a few times, “Yes.”

“You’ll be fine. You should get some sleep.” 

He sits back down, ignoring the bed and pressing against the bars as close as he can get. Natasha tips her head back against the wall, stares at the concrete ceiling, the fully-enclosed, tamperproof light fitting washing them both in sickly yellow. There’s a camera winking at them from the corridor.

“Auntie Nat?”

“Mm.”

“How are we going to get out?”

She doesn’t answer for a long time. Cooper lets his eyelids close and starts to drift away. When she does speak, it’s barely audible.

“I don’t know.”

…

Natasha doesn’t sleep. She tries. Or rather, her body has reached such a state of exhaustion that she can’t stop her eyes from drifting shut. But they spring open again fast enough, because all she can see on the insides of her eyelids is Laura’s face. And Clint’s.

_I’m sorry._

It’s not enough, it’s so far from being enough. She needs to focus. There’s always a way out. She needs to sleep. 

Cooper’s snoring gently, curled up on the floor, slumped against a metal bar. It can’t be comfortable, and it’s going to leave a red mark on his face when he wakes up. Natasha hasn’t got the heart to wake him.

It’s warm, thankfully. Just the wrong side of too warm, the air still and stuffy, but that’s better than too cold. Ross is treading a fine line, she knows. What he’s done is illegal, she’s certain of that. But the Accords give him some leeway, some allowance to do what is necessary to bring them in. So, as long as he toes that line, so long as Cooper remains warm and well-fed and mostly unharmed, he’ll probably get away with it. 

Natasha grits her teeth and stretches her legs out in front of her, thinking. Thinking helps.

That should, in exchange, give _her_ some leeway. Some room to act without fear. But she’s seen with her own eyes what Ross can do, the depths he can sink to when he thinks he’s in the right. When he’s afraid of someone else’s power. Harlem is a testament to that. He’s not a rational man, not always. And she can’t risk it, she just can’t.

Her fingers steeple together in her lap, counting off points in a silent argument with herself. Because that’s not even the biggest problem, not really. The fundamental fact is, that even if she knew, even if she was absolutely sure that Cooper wouldn’t get hurt, she still couldn’t get out. She won’t leave him alone. He’s her best friend’s child. He’s _her_ child, in so many ways that matter. So they don’t have to hold her, they just have to hold him.

All the while she replays that moment on the rooftop, watching the van pull into the motel parking lot, over and over again. They’d _known_ that the Bartons were there. They hadn’t been sure that she was there, but they’d known that _they_ were. She wracks her memory, running over every second of the past 72 hours. She’s been so careful, and she just can’t connect the dots. She hates not knowing. She’s fucked up somewhere, and if she can’t work out where, then she might do it again.

Not to mention that someone _else_ has been following her undetected. Another mystery she still hasn’t been able to solve. 

Her stomach knots unpleasantly.

Cooper stirs, his eyelids fluttering.

“Hey kiddo.”

He starts as his eyes blink open, and Natasha sees the exact moment when he remembers where they are. 

“Why don’t you try the bed?”

He shakes his head firmly. 

“Ok.”

She reaches a hand out towards him. It’s an empty gesture, the corridor too wide for their fingers to touch. Cooper copies her, as if reducing the space between them will somehow help. 

“Where are we?”

“I’m not sure. Somewhere in Minnesota, maybe near Minneapolis.”

“I’ve never been to Minneapolis.”

“I have. Spent most of my time hiding out in a dodgy motel room.”

“Did you see the Mississippi?”

“I did. It’s more impressive further South though.” She shifts position, sits cross-legged to face him. “I gotta say, Coop, I’m impressed by your geography.”

He smiles softly, “I look up all the places Dad goes.”

Natasha pinches her eyebrows together. “He tells you?”

“Well, no.” Cooper looks slightly sheepish, “But he tells me a place he could be going, and I look that up instead.”

Huh, that game had someone slipped Natasha’s notice. In spite of the circumstances, she smiles.

“So where else have you looked up?”

“Er… loads of places. Chicago, DC, Houston. Budapest, Paris, Novgorod. Rio de Janeiro. There was a place in Thailand too.” He stops, yawns, and starts fiddling with the fraying hem of his t-shirt, “Have you really been to any of them?”

“All of them.”

That gets her a grin, “Cool.” 

“Are you hungry?”

He shrugs, “Not really.” And then, a moment later, “Have you got any food?”

“No. But I’ll get you some.”

“How?”

She gives him half a smile, “I don’t know yet. But I’m working on it.”

“Do you know how we’re getting out yet?”

“I’m working on that too.” His blind faith in her stirs something, kick-starts her mind despite the exhaustion and worry.

“Ok.”

They fall silent then, as a door opens and slams shut at the end of the corridor. Cooper’s eyes widen, “Who is it?”

“I don’t know. Just leave it to me, ok? We’re going to be fine.” The promise sounds emptier every time she makes it.

She rises to her feet and leans nonchalantly against the wall by the cell door. A depressingly familiar figure walks down the corridor towards them, flanked by two guards. 

“Secretary Ross,” Natasha smiles her predator’s smile, “Nice of you to drop in.”

His suit is neatly pressed and moustache tidily trimmed, but nevertheless she notes an air of unkemptness about him as he approaches. There’s a hint of urgency in the not-quite-straightness of his tie, a suggestion of frantic activity and at least one sleepless night in the shadows under his eyes and the tension across his shoulders.

He nods at her, “Ms. Romanoff. Master Barton. I’m glad you could join us.” 

She doesn’t respond, just watches him closely.

He smirks a little, adjusting his tie with one hand, and reaching into his pocket for something small and heavy with the other. “Now, Ms. Romanoff, I’m going to have to ask you to turn around and put your hands behind you back.”

She meets his eyes, crossing her arms over her chest, “This is getting extremely repetitive. It’s very dull.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I can certainly make things more exciting, if you wish.” The threat is very thinly veiled.

“No need.” She turns around.

It’s not handcuffs this time, but a single metal cuff, thick and heavy, sealing around her right wrist.

“All done.”

She blinks, and turns around, examines it. “What’s this?”

He smiles. Properly smiles, as if he’s about to see something he’s been working on for a long time finally come to fruition. “Let’s see.”

Natasha feels the dread smouldering in the pit of her stomach re-awaken. She resists taking a step back as he pulls out his phone and taps a few buttons.

For half a second, nothing happens.

And then, suddenly and silently, a Perspex screen slams down in front of her cell, sealing her in. 

“Auntie Nat!” Cooper’s scream is muffled.

Natasha looks around slowly. She can hear a faint hissing, just at the upper reaches of her hearing. As she examines the ceiling, she realises that what she had taken to be imperfections in the concrete, part of the random pattern of natural divots and colour variations, are in fact a series of nozzles.

She stands perfectly still for a few seconds, slowing her breathing, calming her heartrate, and giving Cooper what she hopes is a reassuring smile.

And then, something enters her lungs which is definitely not oxygen. Or nitrogen. Or anything remotely close to anything her body has evolved to deal with. It burns all the way down her oesophagus and she chokes on a cough.

The next breath is worse. She holds herself steady, but she desperately wants to retch. Her mind is whirring. Ross is watching her with detached disinterest. _What the hell is he playing at? What the hell is he trying to do?_ Her lungs burn like someone’s set a match to them. She’s inhaled smoke before, but this feels like the fire is in her lungs.

A few more sharp, shallow breaths and her vision starts to blur at the edges. Her knees buckle. 

Cooper screams.

And then her diaphragm spasms and she loses control. She’s coughing and gasping, and it’s not helping, it’s making it worse. She throws up. It’s mostly bile and little bit of yesterday’s sandwich. She retches, gagging on an empty stomach. She can feel her throat starting to close up. Something’s got to give or she’s going to pass out. 

It stops as suddenly as it started. The hiss grows louder, clearing the air, and then quiets again. The screen lifts. Natasha takes a few deep, steadying breaths. Oxygen returns to her brain. The pain recedes. The smell of vomit is acrid and her mouth tastes sour. She spits, and wipes it with the back of her hand. Then she stands up.

Her eyes are dark. “What the hell was that for?”

Ross is watching her closely, “A demonstration.” He comes to stand in front of her, blocking off her view of Cooper, giving them the illusion of privacy. He speaks quietly. “I want to be clear, Ms. Romanoff, you are in violation of the Sokovia Accords and you have very few rights. You are being watched at all times. My security staff all have panic buttons.” He motions at the band encircling her wrist, “If you attempt to tamper with the lock on this cell, if you are anywhere you are not supposed to be, if you so much as move too fast, then that happens to _his_ cell. Are we clear?”

She looks past him, scours the ceiling of Cooper’s cell. The almost invisible holes, the slit for a Perspex screen, it’s all there. He certainly _could_ do it. 

“He’s thirteen years old.” She spits it out between clenched teeth.

“I regret that. But we all do what we have to. Are we clear?”

She exhales slowly. “Crystal.”

He smiles at her. He’s so close, she can almost feel his breath on her face. She could grab him through the bars, strangle him with his own tie and… She swallows, flexes her wrist. She needs a better plan.

“I’m glad we’re on the same page.” He raises his voice a little, perfectly pitched for Cooper to overhear. “A lot of people were worried about whether this would be enough. For Mr Barton, obviously. Rogers, even the Maximoff girl, but you? ‘She’s a child killer’, they said, ‘you think the Black Widow cares about anyone but herself?’ Well, I for one am glad to see a leopard can change its spots. Lunch will be along in an hour.” He turns neatly on the spot, a new lightness in his step.

Natasha’s practically vibrating with rage, but she doesn’t watch him as he leaves. She ignores him as he saunters down the corridor, as the soldiers follow and as the door at the end opens and clicks shut behind them. She’s staring at Cooper, who’s backing away, his mouth open in horror.

“He was lying, wasn’t he?” His voice is a little desperate, and she’s struck suddenly by the fact that he’s not a child anymore, not really, not in the way that she thinks of him. He still has a fading pink line down the side of his face.

She doesn’t answer. She’s gripping a steel bar hard in her left hand, knuckles turning white. Her right she holds fast behind her because she doesn’t know where a trigger might be, whether dangling it through the bars might set something off.

“Auntie Nat? That was a lie, wasn’t it?”

She gives a small shake of her head.

“No. It wasn’t.” 

Cooper stares at her, his mouth still open. A strangled noise comes out. He tries again.

“I don’t understand.”

Natasha swallows, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Coop. This isn’t exactly how I imagined you’d find out.”

He’s looking at her strangely, his eyes half squinting as if he’s trying to see through her, checking that she’s really who he thinks she is, that she’s really there.

“But…what he said about…” He can’t form the words, can’t shape his head around the idea, “You've...”

Natasha bites her lip and closes her eyes. If she could have killed Ross before, it’s nothing to what she feels now. She needs to focus and what’s more, she needs Cooper to _stay with her._ This is a distraction, a way to drive a wedge between them, a way to make her lose control. She’s being outplayed again and again and again. 

She makes a promise to herself. This is where that ends. As long as she can hold it together.

She exhales slowly, “A long time ago but… yes.”

“Why?”

Natasha closes her eyes for a second and tries to organise her thoughts. If she fobs him off now, if she refuses to answer, she’ll lose him. “I didn’t…” No, that’s not the way to begin, “I was raised by an organisation that trained assassins. Do you know what that means?”

He nods, tightly.

“For a long time…” She takes a breath, “For a long time, all I knew was how to follow orders, and how to kill. I never knew my parents, I didn’t play. I didn’t… That was it, that was all there was.”

She flexes her left hand, staring at it for a moment before continuing, “I was very good at it.” 

Is that enough? Can she stop there? It feels like there’s half a lie hidden between all the truths, “I still am. I don’t… I do what I have to and I try to protect people but… you saw me yesterday.”

She feels like she’s treading over broken glass. One wrong move, and she’ll lose him. 

“Does Dad know?”

She nods, “Yes. He’s… a big part of why I don’t do that anymore.”

“And Mom?”

“Her too.” 

He looks down at the floor.

“I think I need some time to think.” It’s such an adult thing to say, such a _Laura_ thing to say. He looks small and lost and alone.

“Um, ok.” She turns around, sits on the floor with her back to him. The smell of vomit re-enters her nostrils, “Is this alright?”

“Yeah.”

She settles herself, curled forward over her crossed legs, elbows resting on her knees. Her arms are aching to hold him because she can express herself so much better in actions than in words. “Coop, I… Just, I want you to know…” She shapes the words a few times before she can put a voice to them. “You all mean the world to me.”

He doesn’t answer. She hopes he heard.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me so far. As ever, I am eager for feedback of the general, specific, positive or constructive varieties :)
> 
> Trying to work out what sort of American geography knowledge a thirteen-year-old school kid would have was kinda tricky... I'm hoping knowledge of the Mississippi is similar to the River Thames, where everyone knows it flows through London, but not always that further upstream it passes through Oxford. Hopefully... let me know...!


	8. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The slam of the door echoes down the corridor, intruding on her thoughts as sharp footsteps stride towards them.

The next hour is spent in silence. She hears Cooper shifting around a few times, sitting briefly on the bed and going to the toilet. Her own bladder has reawakened, but she has nowhere to go. She adds that to the list, just above getting someone to clean the vomit off the floor. She’d managed to aim for the corner and, thankfully, missed her shoes. But still. 

She turns her mind back to the headline item – getting the hell out of here. 

The band on her wrist is thick and heavy, weighing her down and altering her balance as well as keeping track of her location. She examines it closely. The seal is almost perfect, the electronics most likely accessed from the inside so it’s impossible to get to them whilst it’s being worn. It almost looks like something of Tony’s except, she acknowledges, it’s missing his signature flair for the dramatic. She tries to slip a finger underneath. Her pinkie makes it halfway, but no further.

Her mind continues to whir as she unwraps the dressing Laura applied one day and a million years ago, and checks the deep slice in her left hand. She prods it delicately. It’s beginning to heal, skin just starting to knit together. She re-bandages it with the same dressing. It’s not ideal, but she doesn’t exactly have options.

The slam of the door echoes down the corridor, intruding on her thoughts as sharp footsteps stride towards them. Natasha turns her head, watching the man pacing down with a small carrier bag dangling off his hand. It’s Johnson – whose hand either she or Cooper bit, she’s not entirely sure. She’s been struggling to get a read on him, but he’s not so far shown signs of overt cruelty. He might be a useful ally, perhaps. It’s certainly worth sowing the seeds. It’s the only thing she has right now.

He heads over to Cooper first and she turns around to watch him closely. 

“Hey kid, lunchtime.”

Cooper approaches him warily, takes the sandwich and bottle of water, and retreats back to the bed. He doesn’t look at Natasha for permission this time, and her heart sinks in her chest. _But it’s only been an hour_ , she tells herself, _give him time._

He turns to Natasha next, bending down to hand her the same. No packaging, no cutlery, no plate. The plastic bottle has had its lid removed. She can’t blame them, really.

She takes them from him with a small quirk of her lip, “Gourmet.”

He lets out a short laugh as he stands up, “They’re not half bad actually.”

Natasha stays sat on the floor, setting the water down carefully and balancing the food in her lap. Being sat cross-legged is the least threatening position she can manage. “Johnson, wasn’t it?”

He turns back to her, and nods, “It is.”

“I have a few questions, if you don’t mind?”

He nods shortly.

“I seem to be lacking some basic necessities. And if I’m going to drink this,” she gestures at the water, “That’s soon going to become a problem.”

He laughs again. She knows his game. He’s the good cop, the one she’ll spill her secrets to. But it’s more pleasant than having spittle propelled at her face. “Someone will take you to the facilities a couple times a day.”

“Huh. So you thought it was less dangerous to take me out of my cell twice a day, than to just give me a toilet?” Ceramic’s heavy, but it’s not exactly versatile.

He shrugs a shoulder, “Someone did. Not my call.”

She gives him a conspiratorial smile. “Understood.” and nods her head towards the corner of the cell. “Secondly, I had a rather unpleasant encounter with your boss earlier. I’m sure you were watching. Is anyone going to deal with that, or are we leaving the smell of vomit to percolate into the atmosphere? Because that’s going to be unpleasant for everyone.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Was there anything else?”

She nods, “One more thing.” Her voice drops and cracks, just a little, a tenth of the emotion she’s really feeling leaking into it, twisted and distorted to make it more palatable, “Look, this isn’t my first rodeo, Mr. Johnson, I’ve spent more time than I care to admit sat in a cell. I can keep my mind occupied. I’ll do yoga. I’ll be fine.” She lets the anger slip in now, just a little, just enough to be righteous, “But Cooper’s a kid. Quite apart from the fact that he shouldn’t be here at all…” She clenches both fists, takes a carefully calculate breath, “He can’t just sit there. He needs something to do.”

Across from her, the child in question picks the tomato out of the middle of his lunch and chews tentatively at a corner.

Johnson looks over too, and she thinks she sees a twinge of something behind his eyes. A twitching of his fingers. Maybe. 

“No promises but…I’ll see what I can do to make things easier.”

She softens her expression and meets his eyes, soft blue to her green, “Thanks.”

He turns without another word and leaves. He’s discomfited by her, she knows, unsure how to fit what he’s seen so far, the conversation he’s just had, with everything he thought he knew about her. Natasha is so many things, even when she’s not being deliberately manipulative. Most days, she struggles to know herself.

This game (it’s not a game, that’s a terrible word, but it’s the best she has), it’s like chess. You don’t know exactly how it’s going to go, exactly how the pieces are going to fall. So you build strategies, give yourself options, hold a million teetering possibilities in your mind until your opponent shows his hand and there’s only one way to win. And then you pretend that that was the plan all along.

She chews thoughtfully. The sandwich isn’t bad, actually. Tomato and mozzarella. The bread’s moist, and she thinks she can taste pesto. It clears the bitter taste from her tongue anyway.

Cooper’s finished his, and she’s not sure whether to speak again, say something innocuous, check if he’s still hungry (he must be, neither of them had breakfast). But she decides against it, decides to let him come to her.

She finishes the water and stares at the empty bottle.

…

The afternoon wears on, achingly slowly.

Natasha gets up and walks around a few times, shifts position, but she can’t settle her mind to anything. She doesn’t know what Ross is playing at. He should be interrogating her by now, using her and Cooper to bring the rest in.

She lies down on the floor and studies the ceiling, steepling her hands across her stomach and tapping a gentle rhythm against the backs of her hands. 

_Unless,_ she ponders, _he already is._ Unless T’Challa’s already been sent the footage of her retching on the floor with Cooper screaming in the next cell. It’s a nice thought, but even Ross isn’t stupid enough to try to lure them all in at once, to bring the full righteous wrath of Captain America down on his head. 

She takes inventory again, everything she has to work with. Shoes, socks, leggings, underpants, t-shirt, bra, bandage on her hand, empty water bottle. She can be pretty imaginative with a pair of shoelaces when she needs to be, but they’re not going to get her out of a cell, disable a security camera and block the signal from the tracker on her wrist. One of those things, maybe, but not all three. She studies Cooper’s cell. His back is to her. There’s nothing she can see that’s small enough to pass through. Certainly not without it being blindingly obvious on camera.

She rolls over onto her side. Still nothing. It makes her ribs ache. 

Her mind turns back to Ross. 

_What does he want?_

Recognition and power, clearly. He wants to be in control and he wants the world to know it. He’s not against the nuclear deterrent, as long as it’s his hand on the button. So he wants to bring them in, and he wants to do it publically. He wants to cement his position and show the world that the United States government will not be held at ransom to a group of unauthorised, unregulated vigilante heroes. Whether they make a habit of saving the world or not.

She shuts her eyes and follows the thought through. He wanted their arrest kept quiet because of Cooper, because keeping children as collateral goes right against the heart of what he’s trying to prove. It makes him into the bad guy, just as much as them. 

_So what’s he doing now? What’s he waiting for?_ Is he making her sweat and watch Cooper turn his back on her in the hope that she’ll…. What? Just give up? 

Or… maybe. She traces her fingers along the floor, rubbing them through the dust.

Maybe he just isn’t ready yet, doesn’t have all his pieces in place. They didn’t know she was there, at the motel. Maybe this isn’t about her at all. Or, at least, it wasn’t meant to be about her yet.

Did she unknowingly force his hand?

The answer hits her suddenly, and it’s so _goddamn obvious._

If she was looking for a family, she’d look in the schools, listen to the children. Kids aren’t so great at keeping secrets, however hard you try to impress their importance. 

So you hear a kid say something seemingly innocuous, and you slip a tracker into their school bag, and then you find their home and you can take them whenever you’re ready. Except if they don’t lead you home, if they just keep driving and driving, clearly trying to confuse a tail, but heading inexorably towards the border with another sovereign country.

_What do you do then?_

You strike first, but you do it clumsily, because you don’t know what’s going on and you haven’t got time to plan properly.

Natasha tips her head back against the floor and blinks her eyes open again.

So, for a few hours, she had the upper hand. That’s nice to know, if not entirely helpful. It also means that Laura is probably still being tracked. Her stomach twists and she hates herself for not thinking of it, for not checking when they collected the kids from school. But she files that thought at the back of her mind because there is nothing she can do about it right now.

There’s nothing she can do with any of it, but wait. 

…

At some point, dinner arrives, delivered by a silent, surly woman Natasha doesn’t attempt to engage in conversation. She’s taken to a barely private toilet cubicle not more than a few yards down the passageway. It’s closer than she’d hoped.

A little while later, when it feels like it should be early evening, the lights dim. Everything is bathed in orange.

Natasha’s gone thirty six hours with no sleep at all and can’t have had more than ten or twelve hours in the last four days. She can feel her mind slowing down, getting stuck running around in endless pointless circles. She decides that enough is enough and curls up on the hard floor.

“Coop? I’m going to try to sleep.”

No answer.

Never mind.

She closes her eyes and focuses on her breathing, emptying her mind one thought after another. It takes a while, but she knows she needs this if she is to have any hope of out-manoeuvring Ross. Desperation can make anything possible. 

Eventually, she drifts off.

…

Natasha dreams of empty words and false promises, of the world spinning out from under her again and again and again.

_“We’re gonna be ok Coop. I promise, I’m going to fix this..”_

He doesn’t believe her. She’s said it so many times and lied so many times and his eyes are staring at her, blank and empty and lost. It’s all empty platitudes, promises she can’t live up to, things she can’t control.

_“I swear, on my life, I will get you out this...”_

The darkness is closing in and she’s trapped and he’s trapped and she’s got to get them out before the whole helicarrier comes down on their heads and—

_“…you will walk away and never ever have t—“_

The hulk roars. Cooper screams.

_“Your life?!”_

And then he’s falling down a chasm and she can’t tell if it’s Bruce or Cooper but she did what she had to and—

 

She wakes suddenly, halfway through rolling to a crouch, fists moving to defend herself. There’s no-one there but Cooper watching her through two sets of bars.

“Auntie Nat, are you ok?”

“Yeah, I—“ She shakes her head to clear away the after-image, lowering her hands slowly, calming her heartrate “I’m fine.”

“Did you have a nightmare?”

She nods slowly, “Uhuh.” She takes a deep breath, steadying herself against the wall, “Did I wake you?”

He shakes his head, “No.”

Natasha stands and breathes for a few minutes. The dream is already fading, and all she’s left with is a vague sense of horror and guilt and... Her hands are shaking slightly. She packages it all away and locks it down somewhere, and then studies Cooper carefully. The dim orange light casts weird shadows over his face. “Are you ok?” 

Of all of the stupid questions…

He nods, “Yeah.” And then starts to cry. 

“Hey.” She gets as close to him as she can, and it’s not nearly close enough. 

“I want Mom.” He’s sobbing silently, shoulders shaking and taking big heaving breaths.

“I know.” She wraps her arms around her knees and pulls them into her chest, holding herself tightly together. As she watches him cry, she feels her heart harden and her mind re-focus.

“Did your Dad ever tell you he once adopted a chicken in Antwerp?”

Cooper looks up, startled but curious, and shakes his head slightly.

“He’s gonna kill me for this, but I’ll tell you anyway…” 

She settles in for a long night.


	9. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the early hours of Sunday morning and Natasha has talked until her voice is hoarse. Clint is absolutely going to kill her but Cooper’s asleep and no longer crying and that’s, really, all that matters.

It’s the early hours of Sunday morning and Natasha has talked until her voice is hoarse. Clint is absolutely going to kill her but Cooper’s asleep and no longer crying and that’s, really, all that matters.

The lights haven’t yet faded back into brilliance which, she guesses, means it’s still pretty early, but she’s starting to lose track of time passing and it could be the middle of the day for all she really knows. She can hear people moving and a door slams somewhere beyond the reaches of her vision. It feels like there’s an awful lot of activity for it to really still be dark outside. She cranes her neck and watches the door. Something’s going to happen, and soon.

It’s not long before her patience is rewarded. The door opens suddenly to admit one Thaddeus Ross and his small retinue. She wonders if he likes to show-off, or if he’s just scared to face her alone. She suspects the latter, but that might just be her ego talking. Her eyes follow him down the corridor from her position on the floor.

“Morning.” She greets him cheerfully when he’s about ten yards away, “Well, I assume it’s morning. Kind of hard to tell down here.”

He nods at her. He’s wearing the same shirt as yesterday. New tie though. 

She stands leisurely, “What fun have you got in store for me today?”

“We require your assistance.”

_There it is._ She knows this game. The odds are stacked against her because, for possibly the first time in her life, Ross actually has something on her that she cares about, but it’s still her game. She’ll get as much out of him as he gets from her.

Someone steps forward and unlocks the cell. Natasha hesitates, just for a fraction of a second. And _oh_ , she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction, doesn’t want to let him know he has her rattled but she can still feel the crackling fire in her chest and she just can’t risk it; she plants her feet and glances at her right wrist. 

He smirks. It’s barely the twitch of a lip, but she sees it and they both know.

He taps at his phone a few times.

“You can leave.”

She flexes her hand and steps through. Her stomach churns. They could leave the door unlocked, disable the cameras and park a getaway car outside the gate with the engine running, and she’d still do what they said, as long as it kept Cooper safe. It would be easier if they’d cuffed her again, because now she has to hold herself still, stop herself from strangling every one of them.

But, in every crisis there is opportunity. She looks Ross in the eye. “Give me one second.”

She doesn’t wait for a response, she just crouches down slowly next to Cooper and squeezes his hand. It’s warm and soft and still slightly smaller than her own. She doesn’t want to let go. He stirs. 

“Hey.”

He blinks at her in confusion.

“I’ve got to go somewhere. I’ll be back soon.”

“Where?”

She shrugs, “I don’t know. I’ll be back. Go back to sleep. I didn’t want you to wake up and find me gone.”

She squeezes his hand, and he squeezes back and then someone’s tugging at her other arm, pulling her upwards. She sets her jaw and lets them do it, letting go of Cooper at the last possible moment. 

“This way.”

They lead her down the corridor, boots clacking loudly against the polished floor. The door at the end opens onto more concrete, the lights brighter, harsh after the dim orange glow of the cell block. They go up a flight of stairs and Natasha looks up and down, counting landings. Four above and three below. She remembers the route in. The majority of the building must be underground. 

They stop at the end of a corridor on the floor above. Ross holds a heavy door open and gestures for her to enter, “After you.” 

She takes a seat in a plastic chair across a bolted-down table from another plastic chair and a one-way mirror which she pointedly ignores. The light is over-bright and yellowish, hallmark of cheap LED replacement fittings for the original fluorescents. It dulls the green of her t—shirt and the blue of Ross’ tie and makes everyone appear sickly and jaundiced.

Ross follows her in and takes the seat opposite. The door clangs shut and locks.

Natasha looks at him in mild surprise, “I thought you’d have minions for this sort of thing.” She feels around curiously under the table with one hand, finds a pair of handcuffs chained to its underside, graffiti declaring ‘fuckers’ with a sharp object, and a rock hard piece of chewing gum. She sighs theatrically and returns her hands to her lap.

“I believe in doing things for yourself. A sentiment I’m sure you share.” Ross is sitting upright in his chair with that smug look around his eyes because he thinks he’s won already.

“I believe in getting the right person for the job. That just happens to be me in nine out of ten cases.”

One of his eyebrows twitches, “You’re very arrogant. I thought you’d gotten better at politics since that incident with the Senate.”

She shrugs, gesturing to the room with one hand, “Tell me, what exactly has this got to do with politics?”

“Everything has to do with politics.”

She nods slowly, smiling sweetly, “So what exactly do you want from me? Maybe we can negotiate.”

His head twitches slightly, as he considers her question. “The location of Mr. Barton, for starters. And then we’ll move on to the others. We won’t be negotiating.”

Natasha leans forward slowly in her chair, her expression shifting to vaguely amused, like someone watching a puppy trying to scare off a jaguar, “Was that meant to be a threat? Because it wasn’t a very effective one.”

He gives the suggestion of a shrug, a slight twitch in the shoulder and shifting of his hands, “Your behaviour thus far would suggest otherwise.”

“Ok then, tell me: what happens next? I don’t talk… and you flood Cooper’s cell with poison gas? And when I still don’t talk after that? What exactly have you got left?”

He smiles slowly, “Ah, you misunderstand me, Ms. Romanoff.” He nods at the cuff encircling her wrist. “That’s just for emergencies.” 

Natasha raises a questioning eyebrow, her eyes blank and expectant.

Ross’ breathing is long and slow and he seems to consider her carefully before continuing, “You were right, you know, a child needs exercise, things to do. Books to read. Showers. Food.” His eyes narrow, “I can make this very easy, or very, very hard.”

“That’s more like it.” She gives a small, bitter smile and sits back in her chair. The plastic creaks ominously. She'd been expecting that. What she has learnt is that her cell is bugged.

“So you’ll talk.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Tell me, is Mr Barton really going to thank you, if you hold out on his son? I know these sorts of familial relationships are unfamiliar to you, so perhaps I should explain.”

Natasha tips her head to one side, studying him curiously, “Unfamiliar? Do you really think so? I’d say I learnt quite a lot about them in Harlem.” She doesn’t say when, she doesn’t have to. His eyes widen, just for half a second, and a ripple of tension runs across his shoulders. She lets her lip quirk into the ghost of a smile, “How is Betty?”

Ross just stares at her. She studies his eyes, watches the cogs whirring as, for several seconds, he can’t work out how to respond. His pupils dilate and a muscle in his jaw twitches. 

In the end, he decides to ignore her, but his voice on his next utterance is tight, “The location of Mr. Barton. Everything you know.”

Natasha holds his gaze for a few long moments before she speaks. “Wakanda. You already knew that.”

“Is that so? That would explain why he was seen boarding a train in Sibiu two weeks ago.”

_Damn_. Her expression remains inscrutable, but meanwhile her mind consigns another half-built strategy to the scrapheap. She’d been hoping his sources weren’t quite as good as hers. There’s still a play here, but it’s trickier. 

Natasha mentally cracks her knuckles, and swallows audibly, letting her eyes widen in surprise just half a second too late to be believable. “Well I don’t keep a tracker on him. In case you weren’t aware, I’ve been in South America.”

“Don’t take me for a fool. I want everything you have. Every safehouse, every contact. I want to know his favourite pizza places in Rome, and his drinking haunts in Budapest.” He pauses, and Natasha stares at him silently, her fingers turning white in her lap, “And let me make this crystal clear: until I am satisfied that you have given me everything you have, that little boy down there doesn’t eat.”

Natasha’s jaw is clenched so tightly she can barely prize it open to speak. She closes her eyes and takes a deep, steadying breath. When she opens them again, they’re blazing with fury. 

“Li Rioni.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Pizza. In Rome. I thought it was unbearably touristy but…” She shrugs, “there’s no accounting for taste.”

Ross’s lip quirks into an insufferable sneer, “I knew you’d see sense.”

“Shall I start now, or would you prefer me to write it all down?”

He shakes his head, making to stand up and brushing down his trousers as he does so, as though they might have become contaminated by something, “ _This_ is the part I have minions for. Sit tight, someone will be along in a few minutes.”

He leaves without looking back.

Once the door has been locked securely behind him, Natasha puts her elbows on the table and rests her head in her hands. She can feel eyes watching her from the mirror to her left, but she ignores them. Of the thousand teetering possibilities, one has just become the favourite. She breathes out slowly, and sets about organising her mind. 

…

Over the next three hours, Natasha spills her guts to a woman called Vanessa. She’s professional and efficient, asking all the right questions in the right order, knowing when to interrupt and when to let her talk. Natasha would have considered attempting to recruit her if she still had something to recruit her to. The light fitting starts to flicker almost imperceptibly about an hour in, and soon gives her a nagging headache right behind her eyes.

By the time she’s allowed a break for lunch, she feels hollow and wrung out. Her throat is dry and scratchy and she’s terribly bored of the sound of her own voice. When it comes to interrogations, she’s not usually the one spending so much time talking. She’s kept hidden what she needs to, but she feels exposed. She chews on a tasteless chicken sandwich. The standard of catering has definitely gone down in the last twenty four hours.

Vanessa returns shortly afterwards to wrap up, going over everything Natasha’s told them, checking for inconsistencies that might rat out a lie. There aren’t any. Given the resources Natasha approximates they have at their disposable, the information she’s given them should allow them to find Clint in about twenty four hours. Maybe less. It doesn’t give her long to ensure an idea is planted in Ross’ mind.

She stares up at the ceiling, feigning boredom as Vanessa runs a finger down her notes one last time. 

“Is that it? Do I get to go back to my cell now?”

The other woman glances up, a little startled. It’s the first time Natasha’s spoken unprompted since she arrived. “No. Secretary Ross wants to see you again when I’m done.” She pushes her glasses up her nose, and carries on reading, seemingly unconcerned. Natasha reluctantly admits to herself that she’s a little impressed. Most people are at least a little wary when left locked in a room alone with her.

A couple of minutes later, Vanessa speaks again, “Looks like I’ve got everything. Do you need anything? More water?”

Natasha shakes her head, “No.”

As Vanessa gathers herself to leave, Natasha lets her eyes drifts shut and, for a fleeting instant, her face draws tight in lines of pain. Then there’s a click and bang and the door’s locked again and she’s alone. 

She takes the opportunity to stand up and walk about the room. Five paces to the wall. Turn. Five paces to the next. She’s getting antsy, itching for more exercise. Friday morning spent lugging boxes around the farmhouse with Laura seems like years ago, although it’s barely been forty eight hours. She needs a run. She gazes up at the concrete ceiling. A window would be nice, too.

In her mind, so occupied with protecting Cooper, she’s kept Laura frozen at the moment she last saw her, asleep in a motel room bed with a child curled up against each side. Now, she takes a moment to wonder where she is, what she did when she realised they'd been spirited away in the middle of the night. If she woke when Cooper set the car alarm off, dived out of bed just in time to see the van pulling away. Natasha can only begin to imagine how that must have felt, and she flexes her fingers, itching to strangle Ross as soon as he enters the room. Her only strand of hope is that Laura hasn’t yet been brought in. Maybe she was better than Natasha. Maybe she found the tracker. Or maybe Ross is just biding his time. 

There’s no way to know.

The lock clicks behind her, and she turns to see the man himself shutting the door behind him. He’s momentarily taken aback to see her standing up, but he recovers quickly and moves to stand behind his chair. “Take a seat.”

She declines the offer with a small shake of her head, “You must be looking forward to this.”

He raises a questioning eyebrow.

She injects her voice with every particle of sarcasm and bitterness she can muster, “You get to go public with this one. It must be killing you not to tell the world you have me in custody.”

He acknowledges her with a slight incline of his head, but doesn’t respond directly. “I have some more questions. If you would sit down.”

“I’ve told you everything I know.”

“They’re not about Mr. Barton.”

She pulls the chair out and drops into it warily. Ross takes the chair opposite.

“Natasha… Can I call you Natasha?”

“If I can call you Thaddeus.”

“Natasha, I’d like to ask you about Bruce Banner.”

Natasha feels her heart skip slightly. _If he doesn’t believe her…_ “I don’t know where he is.”

“Interesting. So you’ll sell-out your friend but not your lover?”

Sell-out is an interesting way to interpret it, when the only price she asks is the welfare of a child. A little part of her mind is frantically trying to work out how he knows. What he knows. _And it’s not relevant because they didn’t and…_ It doesn’t matter now anyway.

“The Hulk flew off in an untraceable quinjet eighteen months ago. I don’t know where he is now. Believe me, I’ve tried. He disappeared off the face of the Earth. He doesn’t want to be found.”

“And that’s everything?”

“Yes.” She looks at him carefully, “I can give you his last known co-ordinates. Stark couldn’t crack his own encryption, but your analysts can have a go if they really want.” She puts her hands on the table and looks down at them for a moment, “I’ve answered every question you’ve asked. If I knew anything else, I would tell you.”

He nods. He seems disappointed but satisfied. For now. 

She stands slowly, “Can I go now?”

“By all means.”

As Natasha’s led back to her cell, she turns her last statement over in her mind, wonders about the truth in it. Last time Ross tried to arrest Bruce, people died. A lot of people. She was there, she saw the carnage, saw what his desperation to replicate the Hulk’s power unleashed. Could she weigh the life of one child with a hold over her heart against the lives of all those strangers? She’s not sure that she could. She wonders what sort of a person that makes her.

She can only hope that she never has to find out.


	10. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cooper stands as soon as he hears people approaching, craning his neck to see who it is. Natasha looks tired, but she grins as soon as she sees him in a manner that is entirely inappropriate to the situation. He grins back, a profound sense of relief flooding over him. He hadn’t been letting himself think about what might happen if she didn’t return.

Cooper stands as soon as he hears people approaching, craning his neck to see who it is. Natasha looks tired, but she grins as soon as she sees him in a manner that is entirely inappropriate to the situation. He grins back, a profound sense of relief flooding over him. He hadn’t been letting himself think about what might happen if she didn’t return.

“What’ve you got there?” She gestures at the playing cards scattered about the floor as she’s locked back in.

“Cards. Someone gave me them earlier. I’ve been playing solitaire.” Losing at solitaire, more accurately, but she doesn’t need to know that. 

She screws up her face in a picture of disgust, “That’s a terrible game.”

“I don’t know anything else you can play by yourself.” He waits a minute, until the last guard has shut the door behind him and, aside from the camera, they’re more or less alone. 

Then he gives into the burning question, “Where did you go?”

She gives him a small smile, one of the fake ones she uses to soften something unpleasant, “They wanted to ask me some questions.”

Cooper thinks on that, wonders how that scenario might have played out. He remembers the scene in _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_ , when the Deatheaters take Hermione away to answer some questions. “Did they hurt you?”

She shakes her head, “No.”

“But then…” His brain takes a second to catch up, “Oh.” 

“Yeah.”

“You shouldn’t have done that! Why did you do that?” He can hear his voice getting higher, reaching that point of high-pitched squeakiness that sends Lila into fits of laughter and stops anyone from taking him seriously. “You should have—“

“I should have what, Coop? Let them hurt you?” Natasha doesn’t laugh. She just looks sad.

He shakes his head and looks at the floor. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know what she should have done, just that she should have been able to do better than that and she should be able to fix this. She’s an Avenger and a spy and she should be able to do anything.

“Coop, look at me.” He looks up reluctantly. “I don’t have a choice right now.” And right there, at the end of her sentence, her eyes flick towards the camera on the ceiling above them. You wouldn’t even see it if you weren’t watching closely, if you hadn’t just been told to look. It’s a code, like before, with the lock picks. It says that she has a plan, but she can’t tell him because people are watching. 

“Ok.” Cooper swallows and nods shortly to show that he’s understood, and then he starts gathering up the cards. He counts out all fifty two and then looks across again, “Do you know Rummy?”

Natasha smiles, a proper one this time, that sort of skims over her mouth but is mostly in her eyes, “Yeah, fancy dealing me in?”

“Can I?”

“I don’t see why not. Even I can’t disable a tracking device with a pack of playing cards.” She says the last sentence loudly and obviously in the direction of the camera, and it makes Cooper laugh.

He deals out ten cards and pushes them out into the corridor, letting them slide the last foot or so before she can pick them up in her left hand. She screws up her face in annoyance as she examines them, but Cooper’s played board games with Natasha before. He doesn’t fall for it. 

He looks through his own hand. Two aces and two tens. It’s not a bad start.

…

Later on, after dinner, Natasha teaches him Durak. They lose the ten of spades at one point, as Cooper throws it down with too much enthusiasm and it skips off down the corridor where neither of them can reach.

He is soundly thrashed at the first game, but he doesn’t mind. He sort of appreciates knowing that she doesn’t just let him win because he’s a kid. It makes it much more satisfying on the few occasions when he does manage to beat her.

He’s gathering the cards together ready to shuffle again when Natasha stands up suddenly and announces that it’s time they did some exercise. He groans, “But there’s no room.”

“We can be imaginative.” And she makes him get off the floor and leads him through a series of star jumps and running around in circles with his knees hitting his elbows. It’s actually kind of fun, and he’s breathless and red in the face when she suggests he pull out his mattress so she can teach him to do a handstand.

That experiment ends with Cooper in a pile of helpless giggles after his umpteenth unsuccessful attempt. Natasha gracefully turns herself the right way up and considers him thoughtfully, “Maybe we need to start smaller.”

He nods helplessly in agreement.

…

When Natasha wakes the next morning, Cooper’s still sleeping soundly. What’s more, he’s curled up in bed, head pillowed on his hand rather than a steel bar. She rolls noiselessly to her feet, back and shoulders aching. Her cell was cleaned whilst she was away yesterday, which is something at least, but she still hasn’t got a mattress. She can’t decide if they’re scared or cruel or just lazy. Probably a bit of all three.

She suspects Cooper will sleep for a long while yet. It had taken him ages to calm down and drop off, and she had learnt a valuable lesson in why you don’t get kids hyper on exercise and attempted handstands right before bed. Laura would have known better. She allows herself a small smile anyway.

Having eased her back into something approximating its natural shape, Natasha twists to examine the stitches in her side. There’s a little bit of redness. It’s not enough to be concerning yet, but she hasn’t been able to wash, and keeping wounds sterile is a challenge.

The hardest thing about being imprisoned, she reflects, is never discomfort or fear or pain. It’s not even boredom, although that plays a close second. It’s the lack of control. Relying on other people to tend to you every need. It’s demeaning and infuriating. When this is over, she’s going to run out into the wilderness somewhere very quiet and scream all her frustrations out at a lake or an ancient oak tree or something. 

In the meantime, she just holds it all in.

The lights have been at full brightness for a couple of hours when she starts to hear significant activity in the building around her. If they’ve found Clint, they’ve worked fast. She thinks back over the previous day and hopes with everything she has that the seed of an idea she planted in Ross’ mind has come to fruition overnight.

After about half an hour, the door opens and a figure approaches. Natasha’s heart sinks. It’s Anderson, of the wonky eyebrows and wandering hands. She narrows her eyes and stares at him blankly. He has a bundle of clothing tucked under one arm. She studies it carefully.

Anderson shoves the pile towards her as he reaches the cell, but she’s a couple of feet back, just out of his reach. She doesn’t take it.

“You’re to change into these.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.” 

Natasha takes the clothes from him and examines them. It’s a pant suit, about her size, maybe slightly large. She retreats backwards into the corner where she’s sure the camera must have a blind-spot. Anderson’s still watching her.

“I’d appreciate some privacy.”

He shakes his head, “No can do.”

She stares at him, “Sorry, I’m confused. I have nothing here except a bundle of clothing which you’ve just given me. What exactly do you think I’m going to do if you turn your back for two minutes?”

He shrugs. 

“Fine. Have it your way.” She snaps, and pulls the clothes on over the top of what she’s already wearing. It doesn’t exactly help the sweaty, gross feeling that’s been building up, but she’s not becoming wank-fodder for Ross’ security team if she can help it.

Anderson looks disappointed. It’s almost cute.

Natasha straightens up, “I don’t suppose I get a hair stylist too?” Her hair’s getting lank and the roots must be starting to show by now and it shouldn’t bother her as much as it does. 

He continues lounging against the wall, watching her silently.

She continues, “Or any clue as to what all this is in aid of?” It doesn’t hurt to get confirmation.

He doesn’t seem to be in any mood for a conversation though, because he just snaps at her, “Shut up.” 

“Charming.” She mutters under her breath. He’s no fun at all.

The doors open again, and Natasha takes in the new arrivals. There’s three of them, including Johnson and a man and a woman she doesn’t recognise. No Ross, but it’s certainly enough for a guard of honour. Looks like she’s going somewhere. 

The cell opens and Johnson gestures at her to pass through. She takes a few steps towards Cooper’s cell, but before she can reach it, a hand grabs her arm and attempts to haul her away as a voice snarls in her ear, “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

Luckily, it’s her left arm, and she can twist and flick her wrist around at high speed without setting off any alarms. She makes sure to painfully twist a couple of his fingers as she does so, and then takes a step back with her hands raised in surrender before anyone decides she’s trying to start a fight. 

“With you? I have no idea. But before that I’d quite like to let Cooper know I’m leaving.” She keeps her voice level and reasonable, catching Johnson’s eye as she does so.

Anderson seems to be perpetually full of so much rage towards her that she’s starting to wonder if he holds a personal grudge. If she was in charge here, he would have been out long ago. He’s a liability. He takes a threatening step towards her, but his colleague lays a warning hand on his shoulder, “Cool it, dude, let her speak to the kid.”

Natasha breathes out, lowering her hands slowly and turning her back on them.

“Coop.” She pulls up her sleeve and bangs the metal band on her wrist gently against a bar, making a clanging noise that echoes around the cell, “Coop, wake up.”

He blinks his eyes open slowly and sits up.

“I’m off. Again. I don’t know where and I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

He nods sleepily, and she adds as an after-thought, a small smirk finding its way onto her lips, “No more handstands. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

He rolls his eyes at her half-heartedly, and she gives him a small wave before she turns away.

“Lead on, Macduff.” 

As Johnson falls into step behind her, he speaks quietly, “You know that’s a mis-quote, it’s actually—“

“Lay-on. I know.”

They travel straight up to ground level this time, and Natasha gets the first sight of a wall which isn’t concrete she’s had in two days. It’s only magnolia-painted plasterboard and dirty blue office carpet, but it is something of a relief. 

There are more people on this level, and they stop and stare as she passes. She catches sight of Vanessa holding a briefing in a glass-walled conference room. There’s a sense of intense activity and a stack of pizza boxes that indicate at least some of the people here have been working through the night.

Natasha’s taken into a small, private meeting room to wait. She’s teetering on a knife-edge. She stands with her hands clasped in front of her, staring unseeingly at a wall.

Johnson takes pity on her, and moves to stand next to her, “They found your friend, in case you hadn’t worked that out yet.”

She nods, “I know.”

“They’re bringing him in soon. Ross wants you to be there.”

“I figured.”

“So, what haven’t you figured out?”

She ponders for a few seconds, “The clothes.”

“Ah. That’s for the cameras. This one’s public.”

“Great.” Natasha sighs, running a hand through her hair in a half-hearted attempt to make it look a bit less like a bird’s nest, but inside, her heart’s skipping.

It could be ten minutes or several hours later when Ross appears in the doorway. She turns to look at him. He’s wearing a new shirt. Natasha’s expression is an essay in perfectly sculpted blankness, but she allows her fingers to turn white in front of her.

“Ms. Romanoff.”

“Thaddeus.” Someone snickers behind her, and a shadow of a smile crosses her face.

“As you may have gathered, Mr. Barton has been successfully apprehended.”

She nods slowly.

“I’d like to invite you to be present when he arrives, in light of your contribution.”

“How thoughtful of you.” Her voice drips with sarcasm.

“And, afterwards, I’d like you to speak to the press, if you wouldn’t mind.”

She lets that sink in, lets it roll around in her mind as if it were an entirely new idea before she speaks, “And what exactly would you have me say?”

“That you have been assisting us in the hunt for unregistered, enhanced individuals and that you will continue to do so.”

It’s a politician’s play. He gets to tame not one, but two rogue Avengers in one day whilst keeping the true secret to his success well under wraps. And if he can get a little petty revenge, continue to stoke the fires of conflict with her supposed betrayal, then so much the better.

Natasha swallows. 

“Do you understand?”

She gives a small, bitter smile, “Yes.”

“Then please follow me.” He gestures through the open doorway.

Johnson follows, but Natasha’s not meant to look like a prisoner anymore and they don’t need a retinue. They leave everyone else behind. 

As they walk, Natasha breathes slowly and evenly. What she has in mind is nothing, really, the risk is miniscule. But the stakes are so much higher now, and it throws into stark relief how little concern she normally reserves for her own safety.

After climbing a flight of stairs they emerge on a mezzanine level overlooking a bright, glass foyer. Sound reverberates off the hard surfaces and makes the small team bustling around setting up cameras feel like a crowd. Natasha takes them all in, examining every angle. The waist-high balustrade worries her for a moment, but then they move to stand at the top of the stairs and there’s nowhere left to hide. 

She falls into something of a meditative state as people hurry and fuss around her. Data bypasses her conscious brain, constructing a mental picture with every particle of information available to her senses. Out of the far corner of her eye, she sees a woman with a microphone start talking. She angles herself into her best guess of the back of the shot. Her left hand starts fluttering nervously against her thigh.

Sooner than she was expecting, there’s a surge in activity, and then a sudden pause.

A vehicle pulls up to the gate, and the room holds its breath.

Ross glances over at her for an instant, tipping his head in a mocking gesture of gratitude. She ignores him, staring straight ahead, fingers still fluttering.

The doors slide open and two people enter.

Clint follows.

Natasha’s hand stutters for half a second. 

He looks worn and dazed. Three days of stubble and a black eye adorn his face and his ankles and wrists are shackled. She hasn’t seen him in the flesh since Berlin. He blinks rapidly, as if he’s only just emerged from the dark.

Natasha has barely a second or two to take him in before he looks up. He catches sight of her and his eyes widen momentarily, before his brow creases into a question. She doesn’t acknowledge him, and he keeps staring. 

Someone approaches him from behind and prods him forward. He resumes walking, his eyes drifting downwards towards her hand, still tapping determinedly against her thigh. He stares a moment longer, craning his neck slightly, and then his brow relaxes in understanding. 

Natasha cringes inwardly. Espionage was never his game. 

She’s so close.

Her hand slows, code turning to a mindless, random rhythm. A nervous tick.

But she doesn’t have nervous ticks.

Johnson’s eyes are upon her and she can almost hear his mind whirring as he figures it out. 

She holds her breath and there’s a couple of seconds of grace. And then she hears the crackle of his radio, a muttered but urgent, “Hold all transmissions,” and a hand wraps around her wrist tight enough to bruise.

“With me.” 

She stiffens in false surprise, “What—“

“Don’t make a fuss.” She can feel his breath whispering on her neck and she knows that whatever rapport they’ve built, he’s not going to help her.

She relaxes her hand and nods shortly, her mind scrambling for a strategy and coming up blank.

Johnson lets go of her wrist and guides her out, one hand firm and steady on her lower back. Natasha’s face has drained of colour, and if they want to tell the world she came over faint and had to be helped out, they’ll probably believe it.

Through the doors, out of the view of cameras, he stops and pulls out his phone. She glimpses a map of the building. There’s a little red flashing dot where they’re standing, and a green splodgy zone which is, presumably, where she is allowed to be. He adjusts it with one finger, and then grabs her by her upper arm and jerks her forward. 

She stops dead.

“Let go of me.” Her voice sounds too loud to her ears.

The hand still holding his phone twitches.

“I’ll go where you want. You don’t have to manhandle me.”

He relaxes a fraction and releases his grip on her arm.

Natasha turns to face him and looks him straight in the eye, “I could kill you before you take your next breath.”

“But you won’t.”

“No.” She agrees, “I won’t.”

He steps ahead of her and finds the first meeting room with a lock on the door. He takes her inside.

“Sit.”

She does. She doesn’t have a choice. It’s like being a small animal in a trap and every time she moves the noose gets tighter and tighter. Except it’s not around her neck.

There’s a window. It looks out over a parking lot, but trees rustle beyond. She glances out as she sits down. The chair rocks slightly as it takes her weight.

The early afternoon sun streams in and she squints into the light.

Johnson unclips a pair of handcuffs from his belt.

“Is that really necessary?”

He doesn’t look her in the eye until he’s secured her wrist to the radiator. 

“It makes them feel safer. If they’re scared, they’re more likely to lash out. I don’t want your boy hurt any more than you do.”

“Then why, exactly, are we here? You could have missed it, no-one would have blamed you.” There’s anger in her words, anger she didn’t explicitly put there.

He shrugs, “It’s my job.”

She looks away in disgust. Her stomach’s slowly turning over, and she’s fighting desperately to keep down last night’s dinner. It’s been a very long time since she’s felt so powerless.

“He’s not mine.”

“He might as well be.”

Johnson locks the door behind him, and she’s alone.

Natasha tugs hard on the cuff. It’s a fruitless effort, but the cold metal digging into her wrist grounds her, distracting her from the bile rapidly rising in her throat. She knew it was a risk. It’s always a risk. And yet.

Her mind is filling with awful images of Cooper and it’s extremely unfortunate that she’s had the experiences she’s had, because it means she doesn’t need much of an imagination. 

She breathes slowly, counting the seconds, in and out. She waits.

After a long while, the heating switches on, and her wrist starts to get uncomfortably warm. She welcomes it.

Birds fly past the window. The sun sinks slowly below the tops of the trees. Clouds gather. It starts to rain.

There’s a commotion outside the door. 

Natasha pulls back to herself.

It slams open. Johnson re-enters, followed by Ross. 

She attempts to stand up, but her wrist halts her, and she stumbles. She’s mildly concerned by her own lack of co-ordination.

Ross’s anger fills the room, a presence in and of itself. She feels like she’s holding a match over a pool of gasoline. 

“I thought I’d made myself clear.” He spits it out between clenched teeth.

Natasha’s brain scrambles to deny everything, “I don’t—“

He interrupts her, “Do you really want to go there? I can bring someone in to replay the footage if you like. We can read it out, word by word.”

That was the risk. If it had been Clint opening her message in a bottle, she could have been cleverer, subtler. But, genius though he is, Tony is an engineer, not a spy, and Morse code is the one thing she could rely on him to pick up on. Unfortunately, he’s not alone in that.

She shakes her head slowly. 

Johnson unlocks her from the radiator and pulls her to her feet, twisting her arm behind her back. It wouldn’t take much, just a twist, a small movement to reverse the hold, but she _can’t_. She remains still.

“Fortunately for you, we had a ten minute delay built into the broadcast. You’ll be scrubbed from the footage before it’s transmitted.”

Something inside Natasha crumples, and the world spins away. She puts a hand out to steady herself.

“Don’t hurt him.”

It spills from her without conscious thought. And then she presses her lips together and grits her teeth, because Natasha Romanoff does not beg. 

Ever. 

Ross’s eyes are cold and hard. He was clawing his way back to favour. He was winning again. And she’s embarrassed him. She can finally see the man whose ambition loosed a monster on New York. 

She takes a breath, “Please don’t. He’s a child.”

He keeps staring. The air feels thin and brittle, like a layer of sugar glass. Like it could snap at any moment. Natasha can’t think straight.

Ross snaps his fingers.

“Fine. Have it your way.”

He nods pointedly at the man behind her, and his grip on her arm tightens, twisting harder to the point of pain. She realises what’s going to happen the instant before it does. A muffled grunt escapes as her vision whites out and her humerus disconnects from her shoulder. 

Johnson loosens his grip and she steps forward, blinking away spots. He almost looks like he wants to apologise. 

She hasn’t got the energy for it. Her left arm hangs limply at her side.

Ross’ voice seems to come from the other end of a tunnel, “Don’t feed them today.” 

He leaves.

Natasha packages the pain away to be dealt with later and exhales slowly. 

That could have gone so much worse. 

She shrugs off her jacket, levering it carefully over her left arm and discarding it on the floor. Then she starts to unbutton her shirt with one hand.

Johnson watches her, “Do you want some help?”

She looks at him in disbelief, “Unless you’re going to reduce my shoulder, no.”

She can’t do it herself. She’s tried before.

He shakes his head.

“Didn’t think so.” The shirt comes off as well, leaving her old green t-shirt. She manipulates it around her neck, tying the arms together with one hand and her teeth. Then she manoeuvres her left arm into the make-shift sling.

It helps, a little.

“Shall we go? Or are you going to sit there looking gormless all day?”

He stands up and opens the door, “After you.”

She steps through without looking back, heart heavy in her chest.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long-ish wait for this one - life got busy...! I've also been having a bit of a crisis of confidence over the last couple of chapters, but hey, this is what I've written - I've got to let it leave the nest sometime!
> 
> And finally, just to clarify, Natasha never loses to the kids at board games. She's just very careful about how often she lets them win... :p


	11. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _48 hours earlier..._

_48 hours earlier_

A blaring wail shatters Laura’s dreams and she wakes with a start, heart hammering in her chest.

_Car alarm._

For godsake. This is one of the many reasons she hates roadside motels. She breathes slowly, eyes adjusting to the semi-darkness as she calms her heartrate. Her two youngest children are still slumbering gently to her right. 

The alarm continues to wail.

Oh, to have the deep and dreamless sleep of a child.

She slips quietly out of bed and peers through the window. A van’s pulling out of the parking lot. They seem to be in rather a hurry, clipping the kerb as they speed out onto the highway. A car nearby is the source of the noise, lights flashing as its alarm splits her eardrums. There’s no-one else in sight. Laura glances at the clock on the wall. It’s nearly four am.

Something about the scene unsettles her.

She deliberates for a moment, and then creeps towards the open doors connecting her room with Nat and Cooper’s. She just wants to see them, just needs the reassurance that everything is as it should be. A glimpse of white catches her eye and she turns her head to see a note pinned to the door. She snatches it up.

_Coop had a nightmare. We’ve gone up to the roof. Be back soon. Don’t worry._

_N_

Laura breathes out slowly. It’s unmistakably Natasha’s handwriting. She traces the tight loop closing out the ‘y’ of ‘worry’. It’s been a long time since Natasha and Clint’s habit of solving every problem by sitting on a roof has surprised her. Natasha is more than capable of looking after Coop by herself.

But still, she wishes they’d stayed put.

The alarm wails on.

She steps through the open doorway into their bedroom and switches on the light. The energy-saving bulb creeps into life with a dim, pink-ish glow. The beds are empty, sheets rumpled, and despite the note in her hand, her heart tightens. Cooper’s shoes and jacket are gone, as are Natasha’s. It all tallies. And yet, she can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right.

She plunges the room into darkness and steps back across the threshold. Sleep will elude her now until she sees them return with her own eyes. She curls up in the window seat and watches the traffic pass by outside.

The alarm wears itself out eventually. The road is quiet. It’s that dead time of the night, too late to be evening and too early to be morning. A lorry rumbles past. The wail of a fox shatters the silence.

_Please don’t be long._

A sudden movement in the parking lot catches Laura’s eye. 

She zeroes in on a dark figure dragging itself up off the ground, moving slowly, clambering to its feet awkwardly as if it’s been in a fight.

Her throat tightens as she watches. A few seconds later, another figure appears. It stands and then walks a few steps, clearly favouring its left side.

Laura can’t rip her eyes away. She feels like her brain has been put on pause, like it won’t allow her to follow her thoughts through to their conclusion.

They have a furious, whispered conversation and then slope off in a gentle jog down the road.

She replays the van tearing away down the highway. There’s no way, if something had happened, that Natasha wouldn’t have been back in this room in approximately three seconds to get them out.

Unless she had no choice.

_Oh god._

Laura looks at her hands, makes herself breath slowly, in and out, to the count of ten. She absolutely must not panic. She tries to slow down the whirl of her thoughts. It could be nothing, it could be a coincidence. But they’re in a roadside motel in the middle of nowhere, not an inner city hostel with rival gangs warring outside. 

She can’t just sit here waiting, not knowing. With a herculean effort, she folds all the worry away in the back of her mind, and just focuses on what she can actually do about it. She looks over at the bed. There’s no decision. They’ll have to come with her.

“Hey sweetheart, I need you to wake up.” She shakes Lila gently on the shoulder. Her voice is strangely calm. She’s not sure how it’s managed to do that.

Lila looks up at her blearily, a frown appearing between her eyes. “It’s night.”

“I know. I just need to go out for a few minutes, and I can’t leave you here on your own.”

The frown deepens and she snuggles tighter under the covers, a touch of petulance entering her voice, “Why not?”

Laura sighs and crouches down next to her, “Lila, I can’t have this argument with you right now. Something might have happened. I need you to be really brave and help me look after Nate. Can you do that for me?”

Something in her tone seems to get through, and Lila nods. Then she looks around, blinking, a little confused, “Where’s Cooper and Auntie Nat?”

“We’re going to look for them.”

“Ok.” Now she looks worried.

Laura helps Lila into her shoes and coat, then gathers up Nate’s still sleeping form from the bed, takes her daughter’s hand and leads her out into the corridor. There’s a nauseous feeling swirling around her gut and she’s just trying to focus on one step at a time because if she thinks too far ahead she’s not going to be able to move.

The corridor is dim, emergency exit lights glowing green at each end. She takes a punt, choosing a direction and walking confidently towards it. 

“Where are we going?”

“The roof.”

That seems to stun Lila in to momentary silence. Then: “Why are they on the roof?”

“Now, that is a question for the ages.”

Out in the stairwell, Laura knows she’s gone the right way. Steps to her left lead upwards, and the door at the top stands slightly ajar, letting a cool breeze funnel down towards them. 

At the top of the steps, she pushes the door open gently and looks around. There’s no-one in sight.

“Nat.” She calls it in a stage-whisper, “Coop!” Lila’s looking up at her now, absorbing her fear like a sponge, “Natasha!” A little louder, “Are you up here?” She’s afraid of speaking too loud, afraid of more dark figures emerging from behind parked cars.

They walk the perimeter, peering around chillers and other mysterious bits of plant equipment Laura doesn’t know the names for, looking in each nook and hidey-hole a thirteen year old boy might be able to fit. Lila is silent, gripping tightly to her hand. As they round a corner to approach the fire escape, she spots something crumpled on the floor. 

Natasha’s jacket.

She rifles quickly through the pockets with one hand and lays out her finds on the floor. Two hair pins, a stick of chewing gum, a shoelace. A burner phone. Her room key. 

She left in a hurry.

But where the hell is Cooper? Laura tries to picture it, tries to imagine what might have happened. They’re both standing up here, talking, maybe. A vehicle approaches which raises Natasha’s hackles. There’s no question – she’d send Coop back down to wake them up, to get them ready to leave. 

So where is he?

Laura can feel her heart beginning to pound again, her stomach dropping out at the bottom. But she can’t let herself fall apart because she still has two children clinging on to her, depending on her for everything, and if she’s going to have any hope of finding him she needs to keep her head.

She takes a deep breath.

In for ten. Out for ten.

“Mom, where’s Coop?”

“I— I don’t know.“ She’s at a loss for words. She swallows, “It’s like a game, like hide and seek. We have to look for him. And Auntie Nat.”

Lila just looks at her sceptically. She’s too old for this. She knows you don’t play hide and seek on the roof of a motel in the middle of the night. Especially not after the day they had yesterday. 

Could Cooper have tried to help?

She glances down the fire escape. Metal rungs, and the handrail squeaks loudly when she gives it a short shake. There’s no way he could have followed Nat down without her noticing.

“Mom, I don’t think they’re here.”

“No.” She agrees, “Let’s try back inside.”

They hold hands again until Lila squeaks in pain and she realises she’s been clinging to her like a lifeline. She relaxes her grip deliberately and shifts Nate carefully to her other side, shaking out a stiff arm.

Down the stairs, all the way to the reception. It’s unmanned, thankfully.

She stops just before the front door.

“I think we should be really quiet now.”

Lila nods mutely. Laura checks on Nate, balanced against her hip. He’s still out like a light. The sedatives can’t have completely worn off yet. It’s one thing she can be grateful for.

She pushes the heavy glass door open, and then stops to listen carefully.

There’s the occasional rush of a car passing by, the light rustling of trees across the road, but the rest of the night is quiet and still. They step out silently.

Laura heads towards the fire escape first. The parking lot feels too exposed, the lights too bright. At the bottom, there’s another crumpled heap of clothing. 

Natasha’s hoodie.

She picks it up, feeling around in the pockets. They’re empty. It’s soft and light in her hands.

Lila takes it from her silently, hugging it to herself and holding on tight.

Laura scours the ground with her eyes. There’s nothing but a sad, scrubby bush and the end of a drainage pipe.

They make their careful way back around the building, listening hard. 

Laura catches movement out of the corner of her eye. Without conscious thought, she pulls Lila sharply behind her. Pressing herself against the brickwork, positioning her body between Nate and whatever has moved, she peers slowly around the corner.

A figure emerges from behind a battered Honda. It clutches its head and leans heavily against the vehicle. 

Laura hardly dares to breathe. She squeezes Lila’s shoulder and hopes and prays to every god she knows that she’ll get the message. She doesn’t dare speak.

The figure pulls a phone out of its pocket and dials a number. They’re close enough to hear the muffled sound of the dialling tone. The figure waits impatiently for someone to pick up, tapping a nervous foot and scanning the parking lot with bright eyes.

Laura stays perfectly still, breathing shallow. She has to stay, she has to listen. She has to know what happened.

_“Uhuh.”_

…

_“No.”_

The man’s voice is gruff, and he doesn’t seem to be much of a talker. The voice at the other end of the call is nothing more than muffled squeaks and rumbles. After a couple more frustrating monosyllabic responses, the conversation turns. 

_“Just the boy? Pity.”_

…

_“Bitch kicked me in the head. Give her one for me.”_

Laura struggles to steady her breathing. Her fingers have turned white on Lila’s shoulder and blood is roaring in her ears.

_“Ross can go—“_

…

_“No.”_

…

_“Understood.”_

…

_“Uhuh.”_

He hangs up suddenly and staggers slowly out to the road, making his sluggish way off into the distance. Laura watches until her eyes are strained and she’s no longer sure if what she’s seeing is a person, or just a lumpy feature of the landscape along the horizon before she decides it’s safe to move.

“Mom?”

Lila’s voice is small, and she gathers her in with her spare arm. She’s only just barely holding herself together.

They hurry upstairs in a blur. She needs to process everything, to work out if the conclusions she has jumped to are anywhere halfway reasonable, or just the crazy assumptions of her panicked, exhausted brain. Nate starts to stir in her arms. She’s holding him too tight, but she just can’t seem to let go.

“Mom, what’s happening?”

Laura takes a deep breath, “I’m not sure, I’m just trying to think.” She pauses, deliberating. “Maybe if I explain it out loud, that will help us both work it out?” Her voice is a lot calmer than she feels.

She picks up Natasha’s note from the floor, “Auntie Nat left this for us.” She shows it to Lila, who absorbs it slowly.

“But they’re not there.”

“No, they’re not. I think… I think some bad people came.”

Lila’s eyes widen, “Like yesterday?”

“No…” Laura’s response is slow. She’s thinking carefully. The man was American. He definitely said ‘Ross’. “No, not like them. I think these people are… not as bad. I think they take people, but they don’t hurt them.” She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to block out any thought that might say otherwise. “I think they came, and I think Auntie Nat went to stop them, and I think Cooper tried to follow her or maybe they found him on his way back to us.”

“They took them?”

Laura takes a deep breath before she can respond, lets it whistle out between her teeth, “Yes. I think so.”

The only thing she’s holding onto, the one thing that’s preventing her from falling apart, is that they must be together. Wherever he is, Cooper isn’t alone, and she knows Natasha would give her life for him. She unfolds that thought and lets it fill her mind like a mantra.

“Mom, what do we do?”

She struggles to see through the fog and lay out their next steps. 

“We need to get somewhere safe. And then we need to find help.” She stands up slowly and tucks Nate back into the bed. He stirs slightly, muttering something unintelligible. “You stay here and look after Nate for me. I’m just going next door.”

She returns less than a minute later with Natasha’s laptop, pilfered from the holdall next to the bed. There’s a user under her maiden name. It’s secured by thumbprint. She lets out a sigh of relief. She really doesn’t have the brain-space to attempt to hack her way in right now. 

There’s a single folder on the desktop. A text file inside says ‘README’. She opens it.

_Laura,_

_If you’re reading this, I presume something’s happened to me. If not, stop snooping around in my laptop..!_

_Everything you need’s in this folder. Read it carefully. It’ll get you where you need to go._

_There’s an exe file that will send an encrypted message to Tony. I know you’re perfectly capable of doing that yourself, but you’ve probably got enough to worry about right now._

_He’ll meet you there. Whatever you think of him, he will help. I trust him._

_If someone has followed us, you need to work out how. You need to be better than me. If they’ve followed us here, they could follow you anywhere._

_You’ll work it out. I know you will._

_I’m sorry I couldn’t have done better. Stay safe._

_N._

Laura reads the note twice, and then works her way methodically through the rest of the folder. She devours everything. Maps, instructions, hotel bookings.

Lila slumps against her, passed out in exhaustion despite the stress and anxiety of their night-time wanderings. Laura carefully removes her shoes and tucks her gently back into bed. Her mind is spinning.

She wants to hold all three of them to her so desperately, but Cooper is _gone_. She can’t work her head around the word. For thirteen years she’s known exactly where he is, at any hour of the day or night. She can’t comprehend the thought. _He’s with Nat. He’s ok._ She sets the mantra cycling around again and again.

The night feels like it has already lasted forever, but it’s not quite five. It’s pitch dark outside, the first fingers of dawn not due to appear for several hours yet. 

Her finger hovers tentatively over the programme Natasha’s left to contact Tony. She deliberates for several minutes before running it. She barely knows the man, and what she does know, she doesn’t like all that much. But, she doesn’t have to like him. Natasha trusts him and, in the end, that has to be good enough. There’s no-one else.

The weight of loneliness re-settles around her shoulders as she surveys the room, allowing her streaming thoughts to pause, just for a moment, to re-group. It’s been an awful few days, there’s no questioning that. But, she has to admit, it had been a relief to have someone else to share the load. 

Laura stands and walks over to the window, her mind gnawing at the next problem she has to solve. She kneels on the window seat and grips the sill, staring unseeingly out into the night. 

_You need to be better than me._

_That’s all well and good, Nat, but this isn’t what I do. This isn’t my game. How on Earth can you expect me to find what you missed?_

She slows everything down, replays the last forty eight hours, piece by piece. She tries to think of it like de-bugging code. It’s all in the details, all in a misplaced semi-colon or stray decimal point. You just have to keep looking, keep testing possibilities until you find the answer.

She’s getting nervous, and it’s making her mind run in unproductive circles. They need to leave before someone comes back, but there’s no point in doing so if they’re just going to be followed. She grabs a blanket off the bed and pulls it around her shoulders to stave off the chill.

“Mom?”

Lila’s awake again. Laura’s not overly surprised. She tends to midnight wanderings whenever she’s nervous or stressed.

“Over here sweetheart.”

Lila rolls over to look at her.

“Come and join me?” They curl up in the window seat together, Lila’s head resting on her chest, the blanket covering both of them, protecting them from the outside world. 

“I had a bad dream.”

“What about?”

“School.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

Lila shakes her head vehemently. 

“Ok.” She strokes a hand mindlessly through Lila’s hair, “If you change your mind, you can always tell me another time.”

Lila nods, and burrows deeper into the blanket.

Laura should be more worried, she should be thinking about bullying and unnecessary exam pressure and whatever else might lead a ten year old to have nightmares about school. But there just isn’t room in her head for it tonight. She’s still stepping through their day, replaying it bit by bit.

_Hang on._

“Remember yesterday when we picked you up?”

She looks up from her nest, confusion knitting her eyebrows together. “Yeah.”

“Did Auntie Nat check your school bag?”

She thinks for a minute, then shakes her head, “No.”

Laura can feel her pulse speeding up again. That has to be it. Nothing else makes sense. 

Well, there’s only one way to find out.

“Right. Up we get. We’re going to leave now.”

“Somewhere safe?”

“Yes. Somewhere safe.” She untangles them from the blanket, and pushes Lila on to her feet. “Go on, get dressed, quick as you can.”

She stumbles around the room herself, searching for the clothes she discarded yesterday, pulling a new t-shirt from the top of her case. She checks the files on Natasha’s laptop, memorises the next few hours of directions, then packs it back into her bag. She checks Nate’s diaper (fresh as a daisy, thank the lord for small mercies), then gathers him into one arm with his diaper bag and Natasha’s holdall slung over her other shoulder. Lila takes their case.

She looks around before they leave, allowing the fear to thrum through her just for a second. This was not how this was supposed to go. It feels something like a betrayal, leaving without them. She takes a deep breath. _He’ll be ok. He’ll be ok. He’ll be ok._ And shuts the door behind them.

Out in the parking lot, Laura walks with her heart in her throat. She has the spray can Natasha gave her yesterday ready in her free hand, wary of dark figures emerging from between the cars. But their walk out to the Jeep is uneventful. 

She sets the bags down and pulls Lila’s rucksack out of the back seat, emptying its contents onto the floor. A cascade of pencil shavings and hair bobbles and a few half-finished packets of sweets fall out of the bottom. Lila looks sheepish, but she really doesn’t care right now. Amidst all the detritus, she finds a small, unidentifiable black box.

“Do you know what this is?”

She takes it, turns it over, “No. It’s not mine.”

Right.

Laura drops it to the floor, makes to smash it under her foot, but then she has a better idea. She looks around and then crouches down under the van parked a few vehicles over. With a silent apology to its owner, she nestles the tracker into a ledge in the bodywork.

She double-checks everything in Lila’s bag as she re-packs it, and then repeats the process with Cooper’s, coming up blank.

They reload the car, strap Nate into his car seat and she helps Lila up into the front seat next to her.

It feels far too empty.

Laura holds her breath as they pull out of the parking space and speed away into the night.

…

_Now_

Everything aches. It’s like the pain thrumming through her shoulder has opened a dam and every bruise and pushed-aside, half-healed injury from the last month has suddenly decided to make itself known.

It _hurts._

Natasha can’t sleep. She sits in a corner, stares blankly at the wall. The last vestiges of adrenaline have left her. Her body saying _stop, that’s enough. You’ve lost._

Her mind whirs, running in endless, fruitless circles. There has to be something. Somewhere in this mess, there has to be something she can use. She worries at it, banging pieces together that just don’t fit.

Cooper slumbers fitfully across the hall. Clint, several floors away, exhausted and angry and impotent.

She’d tried. A few rounds of one-handed Durak and a false smile. It had ended quickly, Cooper’s victory as hollow as his stomach.

There’s pain in her ribs and her hand and her shoulder (both shoulders). Her stomach cramps and a dehydration headache inexorably collects itself behind her eyes. 

It all does absolutely nothing to mask the ache in her heart. 

She tips her head back and stares at the ceiling.

…

A server room lurks two floors above. It hums and whirs twenty four hours a day, a dark, pulsing heart pumping data to and fro.

There’s a click, a blip in the flow. A murmur.

And then it whirs on.

 

 

 


	12. Eleven

A sharp click penetrates Natasha’s exhausted daze. 

The door closing. Footsteps traversing the corridor towards her.

She listens idly. A single pair, rubber soles scuffing lightly with every step. Furtive, cautious. Not particularly good at it.

It’s the sound of someone who’s not supposed to be here. 

She looks instinctively for something with which to defend herself. There’s nothing. Obviously.

The tip of a shadow swims into view, a dark splodge in a pool of orange light. 

She waits for the spark, the surge of adrenaline, the gift of evolution which will get her out of this. Fight or flight; it’s never let her down.

Her heart beats slowly. Her muscles are like lead. She’s scraped the bottom of the barrel, shaken it upside down and licked it out.

There’s nothing left.

She braces herself.

 

“Got your message.”

“Tony?” She looks up, blinking, “How—?” Her mind is too slow, it can’t comprehend—

“Hang on, I’ll get you out.” He’s dressed in black, a small rucksack on his back. He pulls at a gadget on his wrist, because of course there’s a suit, or part of a suit, this is Tony Stark we’re talking about and there’s something ringing at the back of her mind, an alarm bell clamouring through the fog—

“Stop. NOW.” She hauls herself upwards, one hand out-stretched and she has a split-second decision to make. She can shove her one good arm through the bars, physically stop him from doing what he’s about to attempt, but she might break the curfew and which risk is the greater?

But he knows that tone, he trusts what it means. He freezes instantly.

She shakes her head to clear it, dragging herself to a place where she can put coherent sentences together, “The lock’s booby-trapped.” Her voice is dry and gravelly. She holds up her wrist, metal band glinting dully, “I’m booby-trapped. Coop’s cell floods with gas. Get him out first.”

“Bastards.” Tony mutters darkly. The dim lighting casts his face in shadow and she can’t read his expression. His eyes narrow as they run her over, a split second spent taking her in before he turns towards the other cell, “How do you know it doesn’t work the other way around?”

She presses her lips together in a grim line, “I don’t.”

“I’ll be careful then.”

He runs a scan, probes the lock and the network, mapping its inner workings and searching out trips. Natasha watches, pressing her forehead against the bars, using the cool metal to force herself back into alertness. Her mind wakes slowly. Tony’s movements are impatient, hurried.

There’s a muted click.

They hold their collective breath.

“Hey, Hawkling, fancy getting out?”

Natasha breathes out slowly and Cooper blinks himself awake. He starts at the sight of Tony looming in the doorway, “Mr. Stark?”

He grins, “At your service.”

“Can I..?”

Tony gestures through the open doorway, an invitation.

Cooper scrambles out of bed, nearly tripping over the blanket as he runs across the corridor. He wraps his arms around Natasha in a bear hug, warm hands on her back and it’s awkward and painful because there are still bars between them and he jostles her shoulder but she doesn’t even notice. 

“Coop.” Her voice is thin but steady, neurons finally firing at full speed. Tony is working on her lock now, a little more sure of himself, “Back off for a second. Just in case.” She glances upwards, at the line of Perspex hanging above them poised to break both his arms if it slams down between them.

“Don’t you trust me, Romanoff?” She raises an eyebrow at him, but there’s no sharpness in his tone. Cooper reluctantly retreats.

There’s another small click and the door swings wide. 

Natasha feels a weight lift. Her mind is moving again, her adrenal glands sluggishly kick-starting. Somehow, she still has something left.

“Can I—?” Cooper’s practically vibrating with excitement and nervousness.

“No.” She shakes her head, “Wait there.”

Tony’s inside now, studying her closely, “What‘s the damage?” He gestures at her left arm, still supported in yesterday’s shirt.

“Dislocated shoulder.”

“Lovely.” He reaches towards it.

“No, this first.” The band glints dully, her wrist reddened and chafed. The weight gnaws at her, a constant reminder that she’s not in control.

“Nat, don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not.” Her voice hardens as she points at her left arm, “This hurts like a bitch, but it won’t stop me leaving.” She raises her wrist, “This will. Get it off me.”

“Yes Ma’am.” He purses his lips and she rolls her eyes at him as he pulls her forward into better light, “Sit.”

She kneels on the floor, and Tony crouches down beside her, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he pulls another gadget out of his rucksack. He frowns as he works. Natasha takes a moment to think, a moment to plan her next move, to work out what needs to be done and what can be left until later.

“How long have we got?” She keeps her voice low, a murmur that won’t carry to Cooper waiting impatiently outside.

Tony doesn’t give her a direct response, but his lips tighten and his fingers move feverishly. He catches her eye, just for a second. “I’ll get him out.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Until someone knows we’re here? About… seven minutes.”

Natasha starts the count-down in her head. Two minutes, and she’ll make them leave without her.

He works in silence for approximately fifty seven seconds, alternately tapping away at his scanner and probing the seam with a screwdriver. 

“Tricky little bastard.” His frown deepens, “It’s gonna take me too long to release it. But I can hijack the frequency, send a foldback signal to widen the zone. Give us some time.”

“Do it.”

He looks up barely half a second later, “Done.” He’s jittery now, hiding it well but not well enough. His foot is bouncing minutely as he packs his equipment away. 

Natasha rolls back onto her toes, preparing to stand, preparing to run.

“Not so fast. I don’t have a suit. You’re gonna need that arm.”

Her eyes narrow, “Get on with it.” 

Tony takes hold of her just above the elbow, his touch gentle as he removes the sling, “Brace yourself.” His grip tightens, “One… two…” He pulls down hard, and Natasha digs her nails into her thigh, gritting her teeth as the pain spikes. She thinks about the concrete under her legs, the cold seeping into her skin and imagines the pain flowing the other way, sends it out into the earth.

A small gasp escapes her as the joint finally returns to its proper place. 

She inhales slowly, blows air out between her teeth. Her head feels light with relief.

“Better?”

She nods slowly, swivelling her shoulder gingerly to test the motion as she stands. She’s going to have to be careful. 

“Here, brought you some presents.”

He presses two gauntlets and a handful of widow’s bites into her hands. 

“Welcome back, Romanoff.”

Natasha just rolls her eyes, strapping them on as she steps out of the cell, “Barton…?”

“Two floors up.”

Out in the corridor, she takes Cooper by the shoulders, looks straight into his eyes, “Stick with Tony. Whatever happens, you do not leave his side. No heroics, no messing about. Do you understand?”

He nods seriously, and she hands him the widow’s bites.

“Anyone gets near, you press this, throw it, and run. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

They hurry towards the stairs, passing through alternating pools of orange and deep shadow. Tony glances at his watch as he brings up the rear. 

“Four minutes. I have a back-up, but it’s… not quite ready.”

Natasha shakes her head, “Not long enough. Take Coop and go. Leave if we’re not out in ten minutes.”

“Rhodey’s driving. Black Ford Mondeo.” She grimaces and he smirks in agreement, “North West corner.” He pulls his rucksack off as they take the stairs two at a time, grabbing a StarkPhone from one of the pockets, “The protocols I used on the locks will have uploaded by now.”

She takes it wordlessly, already thinking three steps ahead, working out contingencies. Getting Cooper out, that’s the priority. Anything else is a bonus.

They make the top, and Natasha pauses. Tony grabs Cooper’s hand, “Come on Hawkling, time to go.” He looks her in the eye, “Good luck.” 

The count-down ticks away. _Three minutes and thirty five seconds._

Her eyes follow them as they run up the next flight of stairs, their footsteps echoing on the concrete. Then, she plunges through the door.

The cell-block is identical to the one downstairs, the lights dim and orange, and Natasha squints into the shadows as her pupils dilate too slowly. She passes cell after empty cell and breaks into a jog as the clock in her head counts inexorably down.

_Three minutes and twelve seconds._

Finally: “Nat? Where’s Coop? They showed me—”

“He’s safe.”

Clint looks about as awful as she feels. He nods, the weight on his shoulders visibly lightening. She hopes it’s justified. It takes about half a second for her to take him in, and then she scans the phone over the lock on his cell, setting it processing. 

He squints at it, “Is that Stark’s?”

“Yup.”

“How--?”

_Two minutes and fifty eight seconds._

“Long story.” Her answers are characteristically brief, but she won’t quite meet his eyes. “We’ve got less than two and a half minutes before the alarms.”

He shrugs, and a smirk crosses his face, “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

There’s a muted click and the door swings open. He steps out into her personal space, and she shoves him away down the corridor, “Get a move on.”

They run.

The door ricochets as they burst through it, taking the stairs two or three at a time. Without discussion, they pause at the top. Natasha presses her ear to the door, taking a second to listen hard.

_Two minutes and thirty three seconds._

There’s movement on the other side. Voices.

She feels her stomach drop out and a band of steel clinches around her chest. She assesses for a moment, triangulating the pitch and the volume, figuring out the angles. Clint is trying to signal her, but she waves him down with a sharp motion.

Tony’s talking fast. She can hear the cadence of his voice, the rise and fall as he attempts to bullshit his way out of trouble.

_Two minutes and two seconds._

This is not happening again.

Natasha rests her hand gently on the door handle, closing her eyes, judging her moment.

Waiting.

_One minute and forty eight seconds._

She bursts through, pushing Tony aside with the full weight of her body against the door. He lets out a strangled yelp as she flies past, throwing herself at Cooper’s legs and tackling him to the ground as a bullet whistles through her hair. 

The crack of the gun echoes a split second later, the sharp tang of gunpowder fills her nostrils.

She sees red.

They hit the floor hard, expelling all the breath in her lungs in a sudden whoosh of air, but she’s still moving, momentum carrying her through as she rolls off Cooper and back to her feet. 

_One minute and thirty seven seconds._

She eyes up their assailant, her eyes darkening.

“You actually shot. You fucking bastard.”

Johnson is looking at the gun in his hands as if he can’t quite believe it himself. He looks up at her, fury blazing out of her eyes, and his expression hardens.

They size each other up. Natasha can feel movement behind her, hear Tony clambering awkwardly to his feet and Clint gathering Cooper and checking for injuries, but it all sounds like it’s coming from a long way off. 

She flexes her wrist.

“I could kill you before you take your next breath if I wanted to.”

“But you won’t.”

“Maybe not.” She shrugs, and allows herself to smile, “Shall we find out?”

He backs away a step, and she dives forward, grabbing the wrist holding the gun before he can let off another shot. They both careen into the wall, his knee making contact with her sternum as she bangs his hand hard against the plasterboard until the gun drops to the floor with a clatter and she can kick it away.

He’s pummelling her kidney from behind with his other hand by now, but as long as it’s occupied with that, it’s not sounding the alarm. Her shoulder throbs.

She glances back, catches Clint’s eye “What the hell are you waiting for?! GO!”, as she lifts her heel sharply to catch Johnson in the groin. He lets out a grunt and attempts to punch her again, but she twists, pulling his other wrist with her.

She knows Tony will have memorised the blueprints. She just hopes there’s an exit that doesn’t involve getting past her. The corridor is narrow.

Tony grabs Cooper by one hand, “This way. Emergency exit.” Clint glances back at her once, and then sprints after them.

They’re not a moment too soon. As Natasha plants her feet and prepares to throw him, she loses sight of his right hand.

The wail of the alarm is muffled, like it’s coming through a fog.

It doesn’t matter. _This matters._

Natasha jumps, pulling Johnson’s arm over her shoulder with all of her weight on the way back down. He yelps and rolls awkwardly over her back, landing hard on the floor. She twists suddenly, kicking him hard in the side and then rolling to pin him down. He grabs her by the hair and she bites his arm in retaliation. He lets go abruptly and attempts to hit her in the face, but she rears backwards, slamming her knees back down and pinning his shoulders.

She places a hand around his throat.

His eyes go wide.

“You wouldn’t.” It’s not quite a splutter, her hand’s not nearly tight enough for that, but there’s an edge of hysteria creeping into it as he writhes beneath her and tries to buck her off him.

“You fucking shot. You have no idea what I would or wouldn’t do.”

Her hand tightens, and his pupils dilate, fingers scrabbling at her forearms, nails leaving deep, bloody scratches.

The alarm wails. Footsteps pound the corridors above them.

Natasha doesn’t hear them. All her focus, all her rage is channelling into one hand. She can feel the roughness of two-day old stubble, his Adam’s apple bobbing against her palm. 

There are voices somewhere nearby. A door opens and slams shut. Someone shouts.

Johnson’s pupils have turned almost completely black, his legs weaken, the heaving of his chest underneath her becomes shallower and shallower.

There’s no-one watching, no-one here to see. No-one to hurt the people she loves.

She can be whoever she wants to be.

Something breaks inside her. 

_I do what I have to and I try to protect people._

Was that a lie? Is this who she is, really, when there’s no-one watching? Squeezing the life out of someone no worse than her, when she doesn’t need to? When she could have knocked him out nearly a minute ago and gotten away. But instead the footsteps are pounding nearer. They’ll be on her in a second.

When she springs to her feet, his chest is still moving almost imperceptibly, the pulse in his neck beating slowly. She kicks him in the ribs because, hell, he deserves that, and then the door bursts open and there’s no more time.

Six people flood the corridor, and they’re not shooting, which is good, but none of them had a dislocated shoulder ten minutes ago and they’re all between her and the way out.

The world blurs as Natasha fights her way through. The gauntlets make her life easier, but she still takes a dizzying blow to the head which sends her reeling into the wall. Someone slams their body into her back, attempting to pin her, but she twists around and slips away, smashing an electrified wrist into their stomach on the way. As she turns, she catches a glimpse of slightly wonky eyebrows. A smattering of freckles.

Anderson. 

It costs her half a second in which she takes another first to her sternum, but it’s worth it to slam her other gauntlet into his groin. He howls. She smirks at him as she takes out her remaining assailant with a quick throw and a bash to the head with the metal band still clinched around her wrist.

Then, she runs. 

The alarm still wails, noise and chaos fill the building.

She bursts through the doors, practically flying down the stairs and out of the fire doors at the bottom. It’s a cloudy night and she struggles to orient herself. 

_Northwest corner._

_Thanks, Tony, that’s great, except I don’t know where I am, it’s night and there are no stars._

She racks her brain, picturing the glass-filled atrium, trying to recall where the shadows fell. She remembers squinting into the light as Clint was brought in. Right. So northwest is the opposite side.

She sets off at a sprint, scanning the shadows for Rhodey’s ridiculous car. And almost misses Tony running past her in the opposite direction.

She skids to a halt, gravel flying under her feet.

“What the hell are you doing?”

The alarm is muffled now, a background wail invading the stillness of the night.

He grins at her manically, and waves his phone, “Back-up came through. You’re gonna like this.” And he’s off again, running back towards the atrium.

“What about Coop?” She splutters after him.

“He’ll be fine. Come on, or we’ll miss it!”

It’s all too much, too fast. 

Her head’s still spinning, she hasn’t eaten and her whole body aches. There’s blood drying on her forearms, her shoulder throbs, and she wants nothing more than to get the hell out of here and find somewhere with a hot shower. But she knows Tony’s best not left alone when he gets that look on his face, and so she sighs, turns around, and sprints back the way she came.

She catches up with him easily.

“Are you going to get me killed?”

“Probably not.”

“That’s reassuring.”

They stop just before they reach the glass entrance.

“You should leave your weapons here.”

Natasha just looks at him, “Why?”

“We’re surrendering. Temporarily.”

“I—“ She opens her mouth, to ask questions, or argue, or _something_ , and then gives up, “Fine.” She drops the gauntlets behind a bush. “If you get me arrested again, I will kill you.”

“Noted.” He grins at her, and then strides up to the doors. They’re locked, unsurprisingly, it being the middle of the night, and he knocks loudly on the glass. “Hey, anybody in there! We’re here to see Mr. Ross!” 

The parking lot is floodlit, making it difficult to see inside the atrium beyond their own reflections. Natasha places herself deliberately in front of the security camera and gives a little wave. 

“This is going to be embarrassing if they’re too busy chasing us on the other side of the building to notice we’re here.”

“I can smash the glass if you like.”

“Hmm, property damage is tempting…”

Natasha’s saved from further comment as the door opens and they’re suddenly flooded with light. She squints into the atrium and finds herself looking down the barrel of a gun for the second time in less than ten minutes. She raises her hands wearily and Tony follows suit. She’s starting to feel numb, honestly, exhaustion creeping over her again. The alarm, finally, switches off.

“Stay where you are!” There’s a shout from the balcony and soon enough Secretary Ross appears at the top of the stairs looking dishevelled and practically vibrating with rage. Natasha idly wonders where he’s been sleeping.

Tony smirks at him as he strides down, “Mr. Stark, you’d better talk fast. What in God’s name do you think you’re doing and where is—” 

He stops suddenly and Tony’s eyes darken, “Where’s the child you’ve been keeping prisoner, you mean? Well, I’m sure I don’t know, why don’t you ask his mother?”

Ross’ eyes narrow.

A security camera swivels suddenly, moving from its position focussed on the door to point straight at him.

He doesn’t notice.

Natasha lowers her hands slowly and feels the numbness begin to recede. Tony was right, she is going to enjoy this.

A very familiar voice breaks out over the PA system as a screen flickers into life behind Natasha’s head. 

“Secretary Ross, if you could ask your men to stand down, that would be appreciated.” 

There’s an icy politeness in Laura’s tone that sends shivers down even Natasha’s titanium spine. Ross has morphed from angry, to apoplectic. 

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing Mrs. Barton, but I assure you—“

“I’ll tell you exactly what I think I’m doing. I think I’m hacking into your security systems, and I have access to your servers. I think I’m downloading all the footage and audio recordings of your B3 detention level from the past three days and I think unless you want me to release these to the public, you will do exactly as I say. Is that clear enough for you, Mr. Secretary? Or shall I see what else I can dig up? I bet there’s plenty here you don’t want getting out.”

Natasha decides that no-one is going to be particularly keen on shooting her in the chest anymore, and takes a few steps forward, turning so she can see the screen above her head. Laura is glorious as she stares Ross down, perfectly steady and bristling with righteous anger. He splutters uselessly in response to her tirade.

“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. Nat, could you make sure he understood?”

She takes a few more steps forward, and Ross frantically backs up a step. She feels the corner of her lip quirk into the ghost of a smile.  
“I understand.” He spits out finally, “What do you want?”

“I want you to allow Mr. Stark and my family to leave. I want you never to come near us again. And I want you to resign from your position in government and retreat back to whichever dank hole you came from.”

“Is that all?” His voice is dripping with sarcasm, but there’s a tremor in it too.

Laura pretends to think for a moment, “Yes, I think that’s everything. Unless you’d like to see the inside of a jail cell. Or an angry mob. Public stoning might be nice, what do you think? You have thirty seconds to decide.”

They stare each other out. Natasha waits, holding her breath. Tony leans back against the window, drumming his fingers on it and making a singularly annoying noise.

“Time’s up. Do we have a deal?”

Ross’ voice is strangled and barely audible, “Yes.”

“Pleasure doing business with you. You have twenty four hours to make your resignation public. I hope we never meet again.” 

The screen goes dark and the PA system turns to static. The security camera swivels back to its original position and Natasha gives it a small salute on its way past. Tony turns to look at her, “I think that’s our cue to leave.”

She nods slowly, “I would agree.”

They both turn on their heel and walk out, leaving a stunned silence behind them.

As they round the corner, Natasha feels a vibration against her hip. She stops suddenly in confusion, and then remembers Tony’s phone, stuffed into her waistband after she’d used it to liberate Clint. 

The caller ID reads ‘Laura Barton’. She answers.

“Where’s Coop? I couldn’t see him.”

“He’s outside with Clint and Rhodey. We’re on our way back to them now.” Natasha hears Laura let out a long breath into the handset. Her voice is shaking.

“Thank God.”

“Do you want to speak to him?”

“Yes.”

“Hang on.” They round the corner, and the car comes into view. Natasha pulls open the back door and slides in next to Cooper. She hands him the phone.

“It’s your Mom.”

He takes it, chattering excitedly, and she can hear Laura’s muffled interjections on the other end of the line. She can hear her barely holding back tears. 

She turns her focus to Rhodey sat at the wheel as Tony slides into the passenger seat next to him and slams the door. 

“Thanks for the lift.”

He shakes his head, “Any time.”

Natasha watches as he shifts the car into drive, and then feels a little sick as he accelerates with a lever by the steering wheel. Somehow, in the midst of all this, she’d forgotten. Someone had paid for their in-fighting, and it wasn’t her.

She looks away. Clint catches her eye over his son’s head. He mouths a question: _Alright?_

Natasha inclines her head without even thinking. It’s not quite the word she’d use, but it’ll do for now. She’s in one piece. Nobody’s dying.

Cooper hands the phone over to Clint with a final ‘love you, Mom’ and rests his head on his shoulder, burrowing into his side. Clint puts an arm around him, holding him close. Natasha tries to tune out the murmured conversation which follows, tries to give them some semblance of privacy. She sits cross-legged on her seat and looks out the window, watching the landscape fly past as they drive away.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Entirely unrelated to this story, but a quick fyi for anyone who might comment - I am a massive spoilerphobe. I haven't watched the previous Infinity War trailer, and nor do I intend to watch the new one (not until after I've seen the film, anyway). The sum total of my knowledge of Infinity War is: Thanos, Infinity guantlet, Natasha has blond hair, Steve has a beard. I am currently in a state of high alert any time I scroll through my twitter feed...
> 
> Just in case anyone might inadvertently have said anything!


	13. Twelve

As Natasha watches, the sky begins to lighten, the horizon becoming clearer, a distinct line between grey clouds and dark landscape. Just as the sun touches it and a hint of pink makes itself known, Rhodey stops the car next to a large field. Cooper nearly makes himself sick with excitement as he catches sight of the quinjet parked alongside.

He sticks to Clint’s side like a shadow as they exit the car, and Natasha wanders around to the driver’s door, trying to be available if Rhodey needs help, but not to look like that’s her intention. _Does he have a wheelchair_ , she wonders, _or_ … of course.

His legs are encased in a lightweight exoskeleton which has Anthony Edward Stark written all over it, and he climbs out of the driver’s seat unaided. He sees her watching. 

“Don’t quite trust them for driving yet, but we’ll get there.” He jabs his thumb towards Tony, “RnD’s a bit slow.”

Tony splutters indignantly from the other side of the car, and Natasha laughs, properly laughs for the first time in so long it surprises her that she remembers how.

“Slow is the word.” She agrees as they cross to the quinjet together, following Clint and Cooper up the ramp. She feels her lip quirk involuntarily, and Rhodey winks at her as Tony comes striding up behind them.

“Hey, enough of that, unless you don’t want my help later.” He gestures towards the metal band still encircling Natasha’s wrist. He means it as a joke, she knows that, but there’s an edge to his voice and a shadow still crosses her face. Her hand clenches.

They walk the rest of the way in silence.

On the jet, Natasha foregoes a seat for a space in one of the wings, sat on the floor away from everyone. She can hear the chatter from the front as Clint enlists Cooper as his co-pilot (under supervision) and they prepare for take-off. 

The rumble beneath her as the jets start up, the drop in her stomach as they’re propelled vertically upwards, the gentle, swaying motion as they pull forwards into sustained flight: it’s all as familiar as breathing. 

Once they’ve reached altitude and the auto-pilot has been engaged, Tony comes to find her.

“Romanoff, you’d tell me if you were hurt, wouldn’t you?”

She looks up, and then gives him half a smile, “I’m fine.”

He eyes the blood dried onto her forearms, the three day old bandage wrapped around her hand, and his brow creases sceptically.

“Bruises and scratches. That’s all. Cross my heart.” She becomes aware of her body language then, curled up against the metalwork, screaming injured baby animal, and stretches out awkwardly.

“Want me to take another look?”

“God, yes.”

He sits down next to her and takes her wrist, running his scanner over it again. He concentrates for half a minute, and then the whole thing springs suddenly open. He looks at her in triumph, “Hah! Brute force always wins eventually.”

Natasha lifts her newly liberated hand back into her own lap, twisting it experimentally. It feels light, and relief sweeps over her in a wave.

And then the shaking starts.

She feels it in her fingers first, a tremor she tries to hold on to with clenched fists. But it spreads up her arms, into her shoulders, until the very core of her is vibrating like she’s about to tear herself apart.

“Nat?” Tony reaches a hand out towards her and she forces herself not to flinch away, “You’re freezing. Hang on.”

He disappears, and she tries to calm her breathing. In and out. Slowly. But her lungs keep hitching halfway there. She tries to pull her focus in, to block out everything but the steady rise and fall of her diaphragm.

She starts as she feels something being draped over her shoulders and tries to throw it off. But it’s just Tony returning with a blanket. 

“Do you want me to get Clint?”

She shakes her head vehemently. She’s fine. This is ridiculous. Clint has a family to look after. And she can never quite forget that it was his concern for her that led them here in the first place.

Tony sits down beside her. He doesn’t talk for a few minutes, and she breathes through gritted teeth.

“I can tell you from bitter personal experience that it’s better out than in. I’m probably the world’s worst listener, but I seem to be all you’ve got right now.”

She doesn’t respond.

“Bruce was good at that. Despite the moaning.” 

A small, slightly hysterical laugh bubbles up in her throat.

“And if he can sit through two thirds of the trials and tribulations of Tony Stark before he falls asleep, I’m sure I can manage whatever this is.”

He sighs, pulls his phone out of his pocket, and starts playing Tetris, “Whenever you’re ready.”

It’s several long minutes before Natasha relaxes her jaw enough to speak.

“I—“ She swallows, and then looks up at him, “I’ve never been so afraid in my whole life.”

Tony puts his phone down gently, “Big talk.”

She nods, breathing out slowly, “Yeah.”

He waits patiently as her breathing slowly calms. Her fists unclench and the shaking begins to subside. Eventually, he’s forced to conclude that that’s it: Natasha Romanoff, pouring her heart out in one carefully formed sentence.

He feels, rather than sees, as she starts to look around for something, and then stands up and walks a few deliberate steps to remove a first aid kit from its position on the wall. She sits back down again, blanket still draped over her shoulders, and begins painstakingly cleaning her arms with anti-septic wipes. She doesn’t tell him what happened, and he doesn’t ask.

“Nat?”

“Mmm.”

“I—“ She doesn’t look at him, focused on her task as he struggles for the words, “In the hospital—“ He stops as a crease of confusion appears between her eyebrows, “In Berlin.” He clarifies, and it’s replaced by wariness, “I shouldn’t have—“

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Maybe not.” He thinks for a moment, trying to distil the sense of what he wants to say into less than a paragraph. “I trust you.”

“I’m not sure that’s wise.”

He laughs, “Maybe not.” And then he looks at her again, and she’s stopped moving, holding a wipe still against a scratch in a way he knows must sting like hell. She’s starting to close off from him, preparing to shut him out and he wonders if she feels like he’s asking the impossible of her. Perhaps he’s just not designed to express himself in one sentence. “I trust you to do what you think needs to be done. And, I suppose, that’s all we can really ask of each other.”

She looks up at him finally, with an expression somewhat akin to wonder, “Did I hear that correctly? Did Tony Stark just admit that he might not always be right?”

“Oh, I want to take it back now.” She smiles, and it’s her genuine smile, the one that barely changes the shape of her mouth at all. Tony shrugs and leans back against the metal panelling. “Political differences… maybe I can respect that. You… They, maybe, weren’t completely wrong. Ross is, in fact, an asshole.”

Natasha’s still focused on herself, unwrapping the bandage around her right hand and cleaning the wound, but she reads carefully between the lines, “Political differences. So not..?”

Tony’s lips tighten, “No.”

She stops, bunching up a small wad of used wipes in her left hand, treading on eggshells, “I…There’s something I’ve been meaning to say.” She takes a deep breath, “It could just as easily have been me. I’ve… done worse. When I didn’t have a choice.”

He looks at her in momentary confusion, and then she sees his hands clench into fists as he realises what she’s getting at. “You’d have been what, eight?” There’s a definite edge to his voice now, and she wonders idly at the wisdom of having this conversation in an enclosed space at twenty thousand feet.

“That’s not the point.” His eyes narrow, “I’m not trying to change your mind. I know…” She doesn’t know exactly what passed between him and Steve, and it’s not her business to try and fix it. But... well, she does know something about not being in control. “I’m just… adding something.”

“Can we not talk about this right now?”

She inclines her head. They sit in silence for several more minutes. Tony takes the wad of blood-streaked wipes from her hand and shoves them in the waste compartment to his right. Then, he picks up his phone and resumes playing Tetris.

Natasha feels the adrenaline she’s been surfing on for the last few hours finally drip away. Her eyes itch and she struggles to supress a yawn.

Tony looks up from his game.

“How did you find us?”

He seems to take a second to recalibrate for the shift in conversation, “Your friend Laura Barton is really quite impressive.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. But that wasn’t really the question.”

“Oh, well, I got her message, turned up at the safehouse. She was mildly terrifying, but we eventually reached an understanding.” He shrugs, “And then we got news of Clint’s arrest. They were all excited about a live broadcast which suddenly got delayed. So we smelled a rat and hacked into CNN’s servers, got the original footage.” He pauses momentarily, “And when I say ‘we’, I mainly mean ‘she’. As I said, impressive.”

“She used to freelance for SHIELD when she first met Clint.” Natasha supresses another yawn and tugs at the corner of the blanket, “Got any more where this came from?”

“Same place as always.”

“It’s a different jet.” And, she doesn’t add, its current occupants tend to have a lot less trouble keeping their clothes intact. 

He shrugs, “What can I say? I dislike change.”

She stands slowly and walks across to the storage lockers at the back. Sure enough, second from the left on the top row, she finds a pile of fleece blankets, and sifts one off the top. Then, passing Rhodey strapped in and reading a book, she wanders up to the front, where Cooper is snoring gently in the co-pilot’s seat. She leans on the back of it. Clint looks up.

“Hey.”

“Want to take a break?”

He shakes his head, “No, I’m good.”

She watches the clouds pass by below them for a minute. Clint reaches across and squeezes her hand, “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“Keeping them safe.”

“I—“ She closes her eyes momentarily, “I didn’t do a very good job of it.”

He shakes his head, “Stop it.”

“What?”

“Tasha, whatever you’re thinking, stop it. And go take a nap.”

She lets out a little laugh, “I was on my way.”

Back in the wing, she settles down on the floor. Tony is still playing Tetris.

“I think I recall putting in a request for thirty hours sleep.”

He glances at his watch, “I can give you two.”

She shrugs, pillowing her head on one blanket, and pulling the other up to cover her, “I’ll take it.”

Natasha’s never believed in falling asleep before your head hits the pillow but, sometimes, the expression is quite apt.

…

She wakes a couple of hours later, groggy and disorientated. Cooper’s shaking her shoulder, having been ousted from the co-pilot’s seat because landing is, probably, a little beyond a thirteen year old with no flying experience. 

“Auntie Nat?”

She blinks, trying to clear the fog of deep sleep and make sense of where she is. She feels the vibrations change beneath her as the jet begins its descent. 

“I’m awake.” She scrambles clumsily to her feet and helps Cooper strap into a seat before securing herself into the one opposite. 

They’re quiet as the altitude drops away and the light streaming through the windows dims as they sink below the clouds. Cooper’s also still half-asleep; excited and exhausted and emotionally overwhelmed. Natasha thinks about seeing Laura and her stomach lurches. She grips the seatbelt tightly with both hands.

They land smoothly, bumping gently down on an empty expanse of grass. It can’t quite be called a field; it’s wilder than that. Out of the front window an enormous forest stretches in both direction, glacier-topped mountains rising beyond. It’s a long way from Iowa.

Natasha unclips her seatbelt as Clint lowers the ramp. She lets him and Coop walk down ahead of her, hanging back as Laura and Lila run to greet them in a confused pile of hugs and tears. 

And then she hears a cry of “Auntie Nat!” and suddenly her arms are full of ten year old girl burying her face in her chest. She steps back in surprise, and then laughs, swinging Lila’s warm, pyjamaed form up onto her hip and carrying her back down the ramp. She’s getting so heavy; this might be the last time.

Laura has one arm holding Cooper tightly to her, and the other resting on Clint’s shoulder, baby monitor clipped to her belt. A murmured conversation passes between them, almost wordless, full of shortcuts and whole sentences conveyed through their eyes. Natasha waits nervously, settling a gentle kiss on Lila’s head and setting her back down on the grass.

When Laura looks up, her eyes search for Natasha. She untangles herself from her family, and walks over to her, “Can we talk?”

Her voice is low, just out of earshot of the kids, and Natasha feels her heart clench in her chest, “I—I’ll leave.”

Laura just stares at her in confusion, “What on earth are you talking about?”

“I nearly got you all killed. I nearly—“ She stops, her voice starting to shake. She still can’t put words to the things she had imagined, that dark afternoon handcuffed to a radiator in the wake of Clint’s arrest. _Yesterday_ , she reminds herself, _that was yesterday._

“Stop right there.” She takes Natasha’s hand and squeezes it between both of her own, “This wasn’t you. Not everything’s your fault, Nat. Thank you for keeping my son safe and bringing him home.” Her voice nearly breaks on the words. She wants to pull her into a hug, to engulf her in the tangle of bodies still chattering over-excitedly at the bottom of the ramp, but there’s something dark behind her eyes and she doesn’t think she wants to be touched like that, not right now.

“Come on, I’m making breakfast.” She raises her voice and calls over to Rhodey and Tony, still hovering awkwardly at the back of the jet, “You too. I’ve got more bacon that we can eat in a week…”

Tony grins, “Mrs. Barton, I thought you’d never ask.” And they make their way down onto the grass, closing the ramp behind them.

As they walk over to the house, Clint falls into step beside her. He looks her up and down, “Your roots are showing. You look like a cone of raspberry ripple.”

Natasha supresses a surprised laugh and punches him on the shoulder “Asshole.” And then she sniffs pointedly, “Have you been sleeping in a field? There’s a distinct smell of—“ Clint shoves her away before she can finish, and she trips on a tuft of grass, stumbling to a halt a few steps away.

Laura shouts from behind them, a child on each arm, “I thought I only had three kids…”

Natasha manages to look sheepish, but Clint is entirely unashamed. He grabs her hand as though she were one of those kids, and drags her up the path at a half-run.

“What are you so excited about?”

He shrugs, “New house.” And pushes open the front door, “Gotta work out which bit to tear apart first.”

  
  
  
  
  



	14. Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After breakfast, after Tony and Rhodey take their leave and head back to New York to deal with whatever fall-out awaits them. After Cooper’s been taken upstairs and settled down for a nap in his new bedroom, once the house is quiet again, Nate and Clint suitably engaged with a pile of building blocks on the living room floor and Lila drawing at the kitchen table, Laura takes Natasha upstairs to the spare room.

After breakfast, after Tony and Rhodey take their leave and head back to New York to deal with whatever fall-out awaits them. After Cooper’s been taken upstairs and settled down for a nap in his new bedroom, once the house is quiet again, Nate and Clint suitably engaged with a pile of building blocks on the living room floor and Lila drawing at the kitchen table, Laura takes Natasha upstairs to the spare room.

She stops on the threshold.

“Oh.”

There’s a small bookshelf in the corner, filled with familiar tomes. She runs her fingers along the spines, reads the titles in Russian, German, English. Her clothes hang in the wardrobe: pants, t-shirts, jackets. The ones that belong to _her_ , rather than her personas. There’s a sketch of a stray cat in a frame on the windowsill, signed SR. In short, everything she left behind in New York when she fled a hospital in Berlin six months ago has been boxed up and neatly unpacked into this room.

“He may be an asshole but…” Laura trails off, “I brought your hoodie back, though in the midst of all this, it feels rather insignificant.” She shrugs. The item in question sits in a little heap between the pillows. “So, sleep?”

Natasha looks longingly at the bed, and then shakes her head, “Shower, then sleep.”

“Fair enough. Towels are in the airing cupboard, bathroom’s the next door down the hall. Do you need anything else?”

She shakes her head, still a little overwhelmed. Everything feels slightly off-kilter, familiar and yet not. Like the journey in a quinjet which sounded so much like home and yet subtly wasn’t.

Laura retreats quietly down the hall, leaving her to her own thoughts.

…

Natasha spends a long time in the shower, washing away not just the collected grime of three days but the helplessness. She scrubs hard at her right wrist, an angry red band laid down over old scars which refuse to be washed away with soap and hot water.

She tips her head back, closes her eyes, lets the steam run over face just because she can. She feels gingerly down her ribs and stomach, checking for more serious damage. It’s all just bruises, just on the surface.

She shampoos her hair three times before finally emerging, wiping steam off the mirror and studying herself in it. There are deep shadows under her eyes, and her hair, with a thin red line running down the parting, does look faintly daft. Clint was right, although she’ll never tell him.

She crawls into bed then, hair still damp and starting to curl, pulling on Bruce’s hoodie over her underwear. Sleep comes quickly, blessedly dreamless for a few hours until the clouds part around lunchtime and bright winter sunlight streams in through the window, pulling her back to alertness.

Wandering downstairs, she finds Clint and Laura talking seriously on the sofa. She stops on the threshold, but hadn’t been being deliberately quiet, and so they look up as she enters. She’s dressed for running, hair tied back and carrying sneakers in her hand.

“Have you got a map?”

“Er… probably.” Laura looks around, “We seem to have everything else.”

“So the question actually is, if I were Tony Stark, where would I keep a map?” Natasha sighs. The answer could be anywhere.

Clint laughs, “There’s a pile of information about the local area on the windowsill. Did you know that Calgary is home to the Canadian Pacific Railway headquarters?”

“I did not. I’m sure that will come in very handy.” She leafs through the pile of leaflets and books, and eventually unfolds a large map, measuring out the distance between the helpful ‘you are here’ marker and the nearest village with her finger.

“I’ll be back in about an hour.”

The air outside is cold, but gloriously fresh, invigorating her lungs as she jogs down the path. Her muscles ache, and her shoulder has seized up whilst she slept. She keeps a careful eye out for ice; there’s a dusting of snow on the ground, uneven and thicker in places that don’t get much sun. 

It’s been so long since she’s run just because she can, and not because her life and liberty depends on it. She picks up speed as she reaches the road (if you can call it a road. Rutted, pot-holed track would be more apt), settling into a rhythm, feet pounding the ground until her legs ache and she’s gasping for breath.

The world, and everything in it, falls away.

…

Natasha returns a little under an hour later, pink-cheeked and over-warm, a plastic carrier bag dangling from one hand. Cooper’s sitting at the kitchen table, sniffing suspiciously at a bowl of soup.

“I think it’s got peas in it.” He wrinkles his nose in disgust.

Natasha helps herself to a bowl from the still hot saucepan sitting on the side, and then cuts herself a slice of bread. “Where’s your Mom?”

He nods towards the window, “They’re just outside. They took Nate for a walk around the garden.”

She can see them now, strolling along the path, one of his mittened hands held in one of each of theirs. Nate’s listing towards Laura, but he’s probably picking up on the nervousness in Clint’s gait as much as anything else. Natasha watches them for a minute, and then decides that they’re best left to it. She dives into the soup with enthusiasm.

“Peas are good for you.”

“Yuck.” He pushes the bowl away, spreads copious quantities of butter on his bread, and eats that instead. “What did you get?”

Natasha pulls out her purchases. A box of hair dye and a bottle of maple syrup. Well, she figures, she might as well make the most of being on the wrong side of the border.

“Want to lend me a hand?”

He shrugs, “Ok.”

She doesn’t need help, she’s done this enough times in motel bathrooms and public restrooms, but it’s nice to have company, to take their time.

“I thought you were naturally red-headed?” Cooper asks later in the bathroom, as she hands him a section of hair to rub the dye through.

“I am. But it’ll take ages to grow out. This way’s easier.”

She luxuriates in the shower again afterwards, because she can, and the hot water seems to be never ending. 

Once she’s towel-dried and dressed again, she walks back downstairs. Cooper and Lila are lounged on separate sofas, books in hand, Clint, Laura and Nate yet to return from their walk.

They both look up as she forgets the creaky bottom step. Cooper stares at her.

“What have I done?”

“You look like you.”

…

The next night’s sleep is restless and interrupted. Natasha wakes with a start just as the sun hits the horizon, feeling hemmed in and powerless, unable to remember exactly what she’d been dreaming. She pulls on clothes, leaves a note on the kitchen table and sneaks out the back door.

She runs again.

Her leg muscles protest, stiff and aching, unused to this frequency of exercise. She ignores them, flying in the opposite direction to yesterday, down a trail between the trees and into the wilderness. She follows the sounds of tinkling water, heading downstream and surprising a small mouse-like creature taking an early morning drink.

When she reaches the lake, she pulls up suddenly, staring at the vast expanse with the reflection of the low morning sun turning it almost opaque. It makes her feel unbearably small. She leans with one hand against the bark of a tree, breathing hard.

And then she closes her eyes.

She feels everything pressing in on her, pushing her under, telling her what she can’t have, what she can’t be. 

She empties her lungs and screams into the expanse. Tells them they’re wrong.

The mountains look back impassively.

Then she runs home.

…

“Nat? Can we talk?”

She finds Clint and Laura clearing the table after breakfast, loading the dishwasher and wiping down the stove.

“Sure.”

She pours herself a cup of coffee and pulls up a chair. There’s a heaviness in the air, a weight of trepidation that’s not coming from her. 

Clint speaks first, “Nat, the last few days…what exactly happened?”

She feels her stomach lurch and she mentally berates herself for being so absent for the last twenty four hours, so sure that they needed to deal with things on their own, “Coop hasn’t told you..?”

“No… not in detail.”

“You haven’t watched the footage?”

Clint shakes his head once, “I’d rather hear it from you.”

Laura’s fingers are tightening around her mug, her shoulders braced to hear the worst and deal with it face-on. Natasha breathes out slowly.

“Right. From the beginning?”

Haltingly, she tells them every detail of their three days of absence. She leaves out nothing that happened, but everything about how she felt and what she feared. Still, Clint has to stand up twice, pacing the kitchen with angry strides, breathing heavily until he’s calm enough to hear the rest. There’s a target pinned to the wall outside that’s going to see some serious abuse over the coming days.

When she’s finished, she sees Laura’s grip loosen on her now cold coffee. The reality was both worse and better than she’d feared. Clint’s still standing, and he places a hand on Natasha’s shoulder, squeezing it in gentle support. “Do you think he should see someone?”

Laura looks up from the table, “How can he? We can’t—“

She stops and Natasha takes her hand, “I can find someone.”

She calls Sharon Carter, who calls someone else, who calls someone else. A network of ex-SHIELD operatives, scattered to the four winds. A few hours later, a name and a phone number are passed back to her. She hands it to Laura, who takes it with quiet gratitude.

Out in the garden, in a tumble-down shed perched next to the fence, Natasha finds five bicycles and a child’s tricycle, brand new, tyres pumped, piled up against each other in the semi-darkness. She grabs Cooper, knowing he’d never run that far, but thinking that this might just work, and takes him out to the lake.

They climb a tree and shout at the wilderness.

It helps them both.

…

She finds Clint in the study later, a grim expression on his face as he checks a litany of encrypted and disguised email accounts.

“What’s up?”

“I was with Wanda when—“ He doesn’t finish the sentence, “I had to leave her.”

“She’s a grown woman.” 

“A grown woman who’s never been alone in the world before.”

“A grown woman who can move things with her mind. And fly.” Natasha corrects him, although she feels some of his concern. 

“Still, I’d feel better if she got in contact.”

Not thirty seconds later, an email pings through. The subject line reads: _New-age witches spotted in Catalonia_ , and there’s a photograph of the _Sagrada Família_ attached.

Clint laughs, “I think she’s fine.”

…

“Auntie Nat?”

“Mmm?” She’s walking hand in hand with Lila along the path, pushing Nate’s stroller with one hand. She’d taken the kids out for the afternoon, but Cooper had run back ahead of them, desperate not to miss the beginning of Doctor Who.

“Have you got a boyfriend?”

She feels a laugh of surprise bubble up in her throat as she shakes her head, “No.”

“Have you ever had a boyfriend?” Lila is looking up at her quite seriously as they wander along.

Natasha deliberates, “Yes, I suppose.”

“How many?”

“Why are you asking?”

“I just want to know.”

“Then… one. Or two. I’m not sure.” 

_Do you count the one that could have happened, but didn’t quite? Or the one flits like a ghost between fragmented memories, until you can’t be sure it ever happened at all?_

“How can you not know?”

“I’ve lived a complicated life.” 

She follows Laura’s lead and tries not to lie, but it leaves her relying on useless, cryptic answers when the kids latch onto a topic she’s not willing, or able, to talk about. Lila’s used to it by now, and swiftly changes tack.

“Have you ever had a girlfriend?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Why not?”

She stops, and looks down at her, “I suppose I’ve never met the right woman.”

Lila nods seriously, scuffing at the gravel with her shoe.

Natasha waits a few moments, and then, when no further questions are forthcoming, continues their progress down the path.

“Auntie Nat?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I climb that tree?”

“Am I your mother?”

“No.”

“Then climb the tree if you think you’re not going to fall…”

She considers following her up through the branches, but then decides that today is a day for keeping both feet on the ground. Nate starts to fuss, and she lifts him out of the stroller, bouncing him on her hip as she watches Lila scramble higher and higher.

“Well,” she mutters to him, “I remember when you arrived. And Lila. Coop, not so much, I think I had concussion.” _Maybe_ , she thinks, _what I don’t remember doesn’t need to matter as much as the things I do._

“Auntie Nat, look!” Lila’s leaning precariously off a branch, waving down at her, and she suddenly deeply regrets her comment about not being her mother.

“I can see.” She feels an involuntary shiver wash over her, “I’m getting cold. Why don’t you come down and we can go inside for hot chocolate?”

“Yeah” Lila woops from above her, and then slithers down in record time, tumbling off the last branch and landing in a heap on the floor. She bounces up immediately, grabs the empty stroller, and runs haphazardly towards the house.

Natasha and Nate are left to follow in her wake.

…

Later that evening, Clint pulls her off the sofa and practically manhandles her outside to the bench on the porch. Laura’s already waiting, a flask of whisky-laced hot chocolate and three mugs sat on the floor next to her.

It’s not the height of summer, it’s not the early hours of the morning, and they’re a long way from the farmhouse in Iowa, but Natasha pulls her coat tight around her shoulders and tucks her feet up under Clint’s thighs, holding the mug close to her chest to keep warm.

Laura sighs as she sits down, “You know, I really appreciate everything Tony’s left here – Cooper’s in K’nex heaven and Lila has soccer boots to keep her going for the next five years – but… I just found condoms in my night stand.”

Natasha tries to swallow and ends up choking on her drink, coughing and spluttering loudly. Clint raises a hand and threatens to slap her on the back, but she shakes her head, managing to get her breathing back under control of her own volition. He leans backwards on the bench, “Ah well, we’ll just keep them until Coop’s old enough.”

“We will not!” 

Laura’s righteous indignation is nearly enough to cause Natasha to choke on her hot chocolate again, but she swallows it down slowly, sweet and slightly sharp on her tongue, and leans her head back to look at the stars as she listens to them bicker next to her. 

“I had a weird conversation with Lila earlier.” She interjects eventually, “I think she’s questioning her sexuality.”

Clint turns to look at her sharply, “Isn’t she a bit young?”

Natasha raises her hands helplessly, “Don’t look at me. How am I supposed to know?”

Laura nudges him in the ribs from the other side, “Cool it, Mr over-protective father. She’s probably just read something she didn’t understand. And decided to ask her cool aunt, rather than her fuddy-duddy parents.”

Clint sighs, and shrugs, “Fuddy-duddy. I like the sound of that. Does that mean I get to sit in front of the fire, toasting my slippers and reading the newspapers all day?”

“You’d hate it.”

He smiles wistfully, “Yeah… still.”

It’s only an hour, an hour sat outside on a cold bench, talking mostly nonsense, but when they finish up their drinks and head inside to make dinner, the house feels different. A little less off-kilter, a little more like a home. 

Natasha looks around. She won’t stay too much longer, she thinks. She has a life of her own, outside of this. There’s unfinished business in Lima to tie up and she’d like to find Wanda, if she’ll let her. Their burgeoning friendship would be worth repairing. 

But, the world feels a lot smaller when you have somewhere to come back to, somewhere to re-group when you need it. She chops vegetables and feeds spoonfuls of food to Nate on a litany of imaginary vehicles. 

Clint catches her eye across the table, and seems to be able to tell what she’s thinking, “Not before Thanksgiving.” He says firmly.  
She rolls her eyes, “Fine, not before Thanksgiving.” She pauses, “You know thanksgiving in Canada was last month, right?”

He shakes his head, “We’ll be celebrating Thanksgiving at the proper time, like real, patriotic Americans.”

Natasha can barely keep a straight face, “Right.”

…

In the middle of the night, Natasha wakes suddenly, heart pounding and a scream dying in her throat. She pulls her legs up to her chest, shaking her head to clear the confusion of terrible images burned into her mind.

The night is cold, the heating off and a clear, cloudless sky outside the window. She moves over to look out at the stars, dragging the coverlet with her and pulling it tight around her shoulders.

And then, Natasha does something she hasn’t done in a very long time. Tries, in fact, to pretend she’s never done.

“I’ve had one hell of a week, Bruce.” She mutters to the sky, “But we nearly gave Secretary Ross an aneurysm for you.”

She imagines she hears a soft chuckle behind her.

“Thought you’d be pleased.”

 

_Finis._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there you have it. Thank you to everyone who has made it through to the end, and I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing.
> 
> I have a few more bits and pieces in the works, but am planning to hold off until after Infinity War to start anything new and multi-chaptered, with the assumption that it will blow my world apart and distract me from anything I am in the middle of. So. If anyone has any thoughts or prompts for one-shots they'd like to see me write in the meantime, have at it in the comments. I can't promise I'll do it, but I will do my best to pick up anything that sparks some inspiration!


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